


soiled hands

by Caivallon



Series: warm hands [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Player(s), Body Worship, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-03 23:19:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10977486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: The moment Jonathan first laid eyes upon him he wasn’t impressed. Didn’t even pay attention to him. He was nothing special; clad in red, hair slicked back—one among a dozen others, all of them more beautiful, elegant, captivating. Until Jon saw him at the front of the stage with his partner in the final pas de deux.There was nothing mediocre, nothing unremarkable about him anymore. Every line of his body smooth and strong, every muscle tense and sculpted. Every single movement powerful and precise. Passionate and perfect. But the thing that caught Jon’s attention above all was the burning intention, the laser focus—the fire in his eyes that revealed emotions the others could not match, which held sinister notions of forbidden sins no one else dared to think about. The fire that promised absolution and salvation and everything Jon could only dream about after seeing into these eyes.





	1. chapter i - xxiv

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heidii19](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heidii19/gifts), [tatou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/gifts).



> This is a Christmas story. A bit late but I also didn't want to wait with posting until next Christmas. But I started it around Christmas last year, planing to write only a short story about Jonny and Patrick celebrating Christmas in a cabin. But somehow it got out of control and turned into this 23k monster. Clearly I'm not good at planning. ^.^ The story is finished and I plan on uploading it in the next two weeks. 
> 
> So this is a Christmas story - at the end of May. Sorry. Also I'm not a native speaker and this is my first story for this pairing that you all made me fall in love with. Therefore please be gentle and patient with me. 
> 
> I don't mean to disturb or hurt someone but I'm not good with tags and ratings, so please tell me if I should include warnings. 
> 
> I have not enough words to thank my beta [ **Jenny** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Linsky/pseuds/Linsky) for all the time she took to make this a better story and correct my countless mistakes. Seriously, you're amazing! Also thank you for all the encouragement and the talks about these two idiots. 
> 
> For the same reason I decided to gift this story to [ **Heidi** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/heidii19/pseuds/heidii19) because I wouldn't even know her if it wasn't for 1988. And to [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou), because she took me to the UC and made it possible to see them play. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did writing it.
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://de.tinypic.com?ref=6ym6au)  
> 

**Soiled hands**

 

 **I. a suspicion**

Sometimes he suspects that Patrick brings out the worst in him. 

 

**II. a truth**

Sometimes he just knows it. 

 

**III. a phone call**

It’s mid afternoon when he gets the call. He’s in the middle of a discussion with the executive director and the interior designer and normally he ignores incoming calls during meetings. But it’s _the_ number… the area code of _Chicago_. Three familiar digits that still quicken his heartbeat even though they shouldn’t. 

So he apologizes and stands up to walk over to the big windows overlooking the scenic inner harbor of Victoria before answering. Suddenly he feels cold although the sunlight falls warm over his face. 

“Hello,” he greets shortly, angry about the irrational feeling. The disappointment that comes with the realization that it can’t be _him_. ( _He_ would never call him again.) 

“Hi, Mr. Toews? Is that you? This is Patrick Sharp from the Joffrey. You probably won’t remember me, I’m the artistic director—” 

“I know, I remember. If this is about the donations, there’s no need to call personally. It was my pleasure.” 

“No. No, it’s not about that. It’s about Patrick Kane.” 

Jon stops breathing—all thoughts of anger vanishing, making room for bitterness and concern. The hand pressing the phone against his ear trembles. 

“He had an accident today in practice. Tripped during a lift and fell on his shoulder while trying to protect his partner from the worst. He’s… it’s not looking good.” 

It’s a nightmare. Everything Jon never wanted to hear: Patrick in pain. Helpless. Broken. 

He inhales sharply, unable to speak as he listens to Sharp’s words. 

“The collarbone is probably broken. What am I saying, it is broken. Snapped like a chicken bone, pierced through the skin… it looked horrible. Some girls almost threw up. There was blood everywhere.” 

As if Jon cares about the girls. 

“Patrick. What about him?” He presses, left hand curled into a fist, nails biting into the flesh of his palm. Nothing but a shadow of the pain Patrick had to endure. But it’s the only thing that keeps him from losing his shit completely and shouting at Mr. Sharp. 

“He’s in the hospital, but nobody can say anything for sure right now.” 

“Surgery?” 

“Most likely. Probably on Monday or Tuesday. They want to have another doctor’s opinion. In some cases it’s possible that splinting the fracture will lead to a successful mending.”

Jon’s fingers must hurt from the pressure it puts on them, but he doesn’t even feel it. 

“And why does it take two whole days to get another doctor’s opinion?” 

“Because nobody is free to see him until monday or off duty. Believe me, I tried.” 

‘Trying is not good enough.’ He bites his tongue to not say this aloud. He’s got a feeling that Sharp wouldn’t appreciate that now. But it’s _Patrick_. 

Jon continues to listen silently, absentmindedly; fear and worry creating an uneasy hollow in his guts, making room inside his stomach with icy, painful claws. 

“Right now he’s not in pain and everything has been done to help him. One or two days won’t worsen his condition. I personally made sure that he is treated in the best possible way.”

“The best possible way would be assuring him that everything is done to get him back on the stage!” 

“Mr. Toews, I understand that you’re worried but the doctors and I are doing our best. However... it is not certain if he can continue dancing on a professional level anymore.” The sincerity in his words is tinted with sadness, with sympathy. Emotions that mean nothing to Jon. 

~~Nothing means anything to him anymore~~. 

“Does Patrick know?” 

“Not yet. I… I didn’t have the heart to tell him. I thought maybe he would rather hear it from someone close to him.”

This time Jon can’t hold back his reaction: the bitter, cynical snort—the flickers of cynicism and selfhate that threaten to overcome him whenever he thinks of the stunning creature that once was his. 

“Believe me, Mr. Sharp, I am the last person from whom he would want to hear about his possible career end.” 

“But I thought—” 

“Not anymore,” Jon interrupts. “I’ll forward you the contact details of his housemate and his best friend. They’re the ones you should call. Nevertheless I think you should be the one telling him - he likes you a lot. Always spoke very highly of you; said you’re the best choreographer he worked with, the best mentor he could hope for.” Jon wishes this conversation was over, wishes he wasn’t thinking about Patrick now. 

(About the year he had with him, the way Patrick had looked at him in the beginning - and the way he had looked at him at the end.)

“I think there is someone I can call. Give me an hour. Maybe he needs to be transferred to North Western.” 

“That would be… great.” The alleviation and hesitation in Sharp’s voice is evident. 

“I’ll cover all of the expenses, of course. Also for everything else that gets him back to dancing; surgery, physical therapy… psychological therapy. You name it. Anything. I want him to be treated in the best possible way. Send all of the bills to me. If there are any problems, call me or my assistant.”

“Mr. Toews… I don’t know—”

“Just don’t tell him the money comes from me.” 

“Are you… sure? You don’t have to—”

“I am sure.” 

Never has he been more sure about anything. 

 

 **IV. a truth about Patrick**

The only thing on his mind for the rest of the meeting. Just like it used to be before Patrick broke up with him. The only thing he cares for. The only one he wants to be happy. 

To be happy because of him. 

It is not healthy. Never was. But his sanity and rationality had always ceased to work when it came to the blond man. _Right from the moment he first laid eyes upon him_. 

 

**V. about Jon**

Jon used to think he was considerate and reasonable. Every decision he made he contemplated carefully, putting aside feelings and sudden whims, keeping everything in mind, weighing the gains and consequences. Never acting upon his instincts. He was calm and composed even in the most stressful situations; always treating each person with kindness and appreciation, be it a high-ranking politician or a hot teenage celebrity throwing a tantrum in the gold suite or the boy cleaning the pool. 

These were the traits that gained him the respect of his parents and grandparents and also that of his business partners and employees. 

Others sometimes called him boring, but Jon used to think he was a good person. 

Patient, kind-hearted, gracious. 

 

**VI. how Patrick changed him**

But Patrick taught him better. Revealed a side of him he didn’t know he had. 

_Right from the moment he first laid eyes upon him_ Patrick had awoken something dark and twisted inside of Jon. Something cruel and possessive. Something he didn’t know he had in him. Something he didn’t want. 

Because he can’t stand the person he has become. 

 

**VII. forever**

The person loving Patrick has made him. 

 

**VIII. the first time he ever saw his face**

The moment Jonathan first laid eyes upon him he wasn’t impressed. Didn’t even pay attention to him. He was nothing special; clad in red, hair slicked back—one among a dozen others, all of them more beautiful, elegant, captivating. Until Jon saw him at the front of the stage with his partner in the final pas de deux. 

There was nothing mediocre, nothing unremarkable about him anymore. Every line of his body smooth and strong, every muscle tense and sculpted. Every single movement powerful and precise. Passionate and perfect. But the thing that caught Jon’s attention above all was the burning intention, the laser focus—the fire in his eyes that revealed emotions the others could not match, which held sinister notions of forbidden sins no one else dared to think about. The fire that promised absolution and salvation and everything Jon could only dream about after seeing into these eyes. 

He had only realized the show was over when his companion leaned close after the applause and whispered in his ear, asking if he was okay. 

As if he was. As if his heart was not beating with madness and his blood not singing with _want_ Palms sweaty, mouth so dry he couldn’t answer, could only nod and wipe his hands on his dress pants before getting up with the rest of the audience and leading her into the foyer. Lightheaded and inwardly thrumming with something he had never experienced before, he quickly downed two glasses of scotch, aware of his companion’s wary and worried gaze, her lips forming questions he stifled with a dismissive gesture. 

Later in the restroom he noticed he was half hard, his cock throbbing hotly just from seeing a man dance. 

Later in the bar he scanned the previously neglected program for the names of the soloists.

Later in her apartment he fucked her, thinking about the graceful hard curves and lines, the chiselled facial bones and soft wet mouth; the glimpse of deeply hidden secrets in those dark blue eyes. 

 

**IX. the effect**

He couldn’t remember ever coming that fast inside a woman. 

 

**X. the result**

Jon never saw her again and he couldn’t care less. 

 

**XI. everything**

Because then Patrick was his and that was everything. 

Patrick was. Everything. 

The sunlight creeping through the curtains in his apartment, the barely-there sound of footsteps on the slate tiles of his bathroom before he wrapped his arms around Jon’s waist. The baby powder scent of sleep and dreams when he rubbed his head over Jon’s chest and hid his face against his throat. The cool and soothing touch of pale skin when he rode Jon after a successful performance, fingers clawed in his pecs, mouth sucking bruises on his collarbone, leaving marks that would’ve made Jon the happiest person in the word.

If they hadn’t been painful admonitions that he was never allowed to cover Patrick in _his_. 

(And he yearned to. Burned to. Every time he watched Patrick slip from his bed and pad over to the bathroom—his back naked and beautiful, the unblemished dips above his ass tempting him to get up and catch him, hold him, claim him. So that everybody would know that Patrick was taken, was his.) 

Yet Patrick was adamant about this. Not even after the season had ended in late spring had he given Jon permission. Instead, he had shoved him away, annoyed and cold, when Jon carefully bit down on the tempting, fragile arch of his collarbone. 

“Stop that! Do you think I don’t notice what you’re trying to do?! I’m not your chew toy. Get that into your thick head, you possessive freak.”

He had gotten out of Jon’s bed, gathering up his belongings and leaving the apartment before Jon could even blink or get up, before he could follow and stop him. The last thing he saw was Patrick stepping into the elevator, wearing only his jeans with a still-open belt, the bundle of clothes pressed against his naked chest; the surprised expression of a couple other guests and the defiant, furious flash of blue. Then the doors closed and he was gone. 

He didn’t show up for about four whole weeks, didn’t reply to a single one of Jon’s countless texts to forgive him and come over. 

 

**XII. four weeks**

Never before had Jon felt that helpless, that restless and boneless. That lost and weak. And he didn’t know whom he hated more: Patrick for doing this to him—or himself for feeling too much for Patrick.  
It was the first time he thought about stopping _it_ , ending _it_. Whatever it was. ~~It was not healthy~~. 

But how could he? 

How could he, when Patrick finally reappeared in the suite, awaiting him like a vision straight from Jon’s filthiest dreams: poised on the queen-size bed, naked and on all fours, back and ass towards the door (what if it hadn’t been Jon that stepped through? What if it had been one of the chambermaids or David? What if someone else had seen—he had to shake it off, had to focus on the mind-blowing sight and not on the jealousy surging through his body). Every inch of him was perfection and Jon had missed him like crazy. Went crazy because he missed him so much. 

“Hi Jonny.” The voice a sweet whisper, soft and full of longing, full of apologies. More tempting than a siren’s song. “I’ve missed you.”

Jon was hard as a rock in an instant—despite it being wrong, so very wrong... _Because_ it was wrong. 

“So so much.”

 ~~So so very wrong~~. 

This was not Patrick. (Not Patrick who hardly ever showed skin, who was so reluctant to be naked around him, who got up after they made love to disappear in the adjoining bathroom to clean off and dress faster than Jon could spell ‘please stay.’ Not Patrick who hid himself under layers and layers of shirts, sweaters and hoodies, who shied away whenever Jon dared to praise his physical appearance.)

“Do you need a written invitation? I’ve even prepared myself, fingered myself to be ready for you.” 

Jon’s heart stopped (stronger men would cave at these words and Jon was so so weak for him); all of his blood was rushing downward, making it impossible to think straight. To think about anything other than fucking him. 

So he didn’t. 

He walked over to the bed, opened his jeans and fumbled for his cock, taking in the view in front of him (cataloging, memorizing): the pale expanse of shoulders and back, the gentle angle of his waist, the countless ghosts of marks he could only dream about branding onto Patrick’s skin. 

This may not be Patrick, but how could he care? 

Four weeks. _Four weeks without him_. 

Without the feeling of shifting muscles under warm flesh and delicate dents of the strong spine, the sound of blissful sighs and urgent demands, the taste of freckles under his tongue while he carefully slid his fingers into Patrick’s body. (He was always so sloppy, so eager for Jonathan.) There was some spilled lube glittering on the soft pink of his taint and the rim of his hole was reddened, but apart from that nothing could tell Jonathan that Patrick had indeed prepped himself. 

He was hot and still incredibly tight around him and Jon was immediately glad that he hadn’t follow the command right away. It would have been too painful for Patrick, and no matter how often Jon had considered this thing between them as unhealthy and sick during those past four weeks, how often he had thought about ending it ~~punishing Patrick for doing this to him~~ …he would never have really wanted to hurt him. The idea alone made him sicker than any thoughts about their relationship. 

“Jon… please, I need—”

Patrick’s voice was a whimper, sweet and small. His gaze hazy, dark with lust as he turned around to encourage Jon, hollowing his back to push his ass deeper on the fingers he was offering, gasping when they finally met his prostate. Breathless and heady. His movements became less exquisite, more erratic and edged. Sweat gathered in his neck, on his temples, on the wonderful arch of his cupid’s bow while he fucked himself on Jon’s fingers, desperate and demanding. He was so beautiful that Jon didn’t even know where to look. At the tongue wetting that damn lower lip, at the narrow hips underneath his hand or the enticing opening that took his fingers so perfectly. 

“More… Please, your cock.” 

And who was Jonathan to deny him this? Deny him anything? 

Layering soothing kisses over shoulder blades and the gentle slope of his back, he retracted his hand and fumbled for the lube that must have been buried underneath the sheets somewhere. The sound Patrick made when he pulled away was so miserable that he almost wanted to forget about his purpose and just… get inside him. It was not like Patrick would not let him—he knew he would; and he knew Patrick would open so deliciously for him. So greedy and needy for him. 

The thought was overwhelming. The only thing that kept him probably from just doing it. Pushing in and taking. 

But instead he gathered up the excessive lube and some of his pre-come to prep himself, to smear it over the thin sheet of plastic they still had to use. Underneath him Patrick had lowered his upper body onto the mattress, presenting his back, the impossible and divine curve of his spine, offering himself like the gift he was. 

Jonathan stopped breathing. 

Normally he would prefer looking into Patrick’s eyes, not taking him from behind like a dog in heat or would at least draw it out. Normally he would layer a string of kisses onto each of his vertebrae, lick over the seductive cleft and dip his tongue into the savory warmth before entering him. 

Not tonight. 

Not when Patrick had made him wait _four_ weeks. 

 

**XIII. a promise**

Jonathan forces himself to sit through the rest of the meeting, forces himself to fake the professionalism he is noted for until he calls Ann-Louise. It’s not supposed to be a punishment he imposes on himself, but it feels like one. Even when he knows that there is nothing he can do right now. 

(Every second without Patrick feels like a punishment.)

He instructs Ann to transfer money to the Joffrey Ballet and press Sharp hourly for updates while also doing research about the best medical centers and physical therapies in the U.S. before heading to his suite on the 4th floor. 

Normally the heavy dark wooden furniture, the Victorian-styled wallpapers and old-fashioned moldings and ornaments felt oppressive to him, the dusky pink, sea foam green and butter cream colors stuffy and suffocating—reminding him too much of his grandparents’ mansion, of high expectations and decades of family traditions. But today it’s somehow comforting to be surrounded with these traditions, with the sense of belonging. False security. 

Pouring himself a glass of scotch, he walks over to the ancient secretary by the window and stares down at the harbor. The liquor burns in his throat, immediately makes him warm from the inside although he is still cold. 

Last year he promised Patrick to go sailing with him—to fly to Victoria, board his one-hand cruiser and sail around the island, to go ashore wherever they wanted and as long as they wanted. Patrick just laughed, called him a romantic, a dreamer. But his eyes were all blue and wide and mellow when he pressed long longing kisses on each of Jon’s fingertips.

 

**XIV. that never came true**

They never went sailing. 

 

**XV. drowning in dreams**

He downs two more glasses of honey-colored liquid until he has to hold onto the windowsill, head spinning from the drink and the onslaught of visions of Patrick flashing before his eyes: from that morning when they talked about sailing—pale skin naked, warm blankets, blond hair tousled from sleep and sex), from the countless times he saw him on stage (body lean and strong, flowing movements, eyes dancing with freedom), from the last time they talked (lips chapped, brows furrowed, voice sharp with hate). All of them turning into nightmares of Patrick in a hospital bed—once lovely pale skin now grey and cold, curls dull and ashen, body broken and weak. 

He wishes he could drown himself. In alcohol, memories and all those feelings.

But it’s the middle of the day and he cannot. 

There are meetings to attend, tasks to complete, a hundred-year-old family name to uphold. 

 

**XVI. the first night**

They met the first time at the gala at the end of the season. Both of them wearing black, both of them in the company of a beautiful woman, both of them overly aware of each other’s presence after the initial small talk. 

Seeing Patrick this close, Jon had to acknowledge that he was even more mesmerizing. (No, he wasn’t since nothing could be as bewitching than seeing him dance.) But he was a shocking mess of curls and limbs and nervousness. Of fluttering arms and flickering lashes, of brightest blue eyes and chapped lips he couldn’t stop lickingbitingworrying until Jon thought about leaving the gala because he just couldn’t take it anymore.

Patrick was sin and temptation and he was totally unaware of the effect he had upon Jonathan, upon anyone. It was a combination that would drive Jon insane later—just like the way Patrick lifted his gaze up at Jon when he smiled at the compliment on his solo. When he accepted the offer to give him a ride home after the event. When he dropped to his knees to blow Jonathan in the middle of the hallway of the shared apartment he lived in. 

 

**XVII. two puzzle pieces**

“What about your girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?” 

“That woman who accompanied you to the gala when we met the first time.” 

Patrick was already dressed when he stepped out of the bedroom (of course): bare feet bony on the plush cream-colored carpet of the suite. The baggy jeans and worn-out shirt a stark contrast to the luxurious surroundings. He looked younger than he really was—soft from sleep and unsure. 

It shouldn’t have pleased Jon so much that Patrick was jealous. 

But sweet lord, it did. He smiled. 

“That was not my girlfriend.” 

“You looked close.” 

Jon watched him walking around the living room, admired him tracing the edges and curves of the furniture: the walnut bookshelf, the mustard-colored designer armchair, the chrome-plated Italian coffee maker. He liked seeing Patrick here and he couldn’t hide it. The careful negligent attention Patrick paid to his surroundings, the subconscious chewing of his lower lip, the mistrustful curious weight of blue eyes—as if he needed to make sure Jonathan was still staring at him. 

As if he wanted to make sure Jon was not lying. 

“We weren’t.”

“You looked good together.” Patrick’s voice was quiet, so hesitating and doubtful. And it was just _wrong_. 

Jon wanted to tell him that he should never feel insecure around him. That he was perfect the way he was. But instead he just said that he didn’t care. (About how he had looked with any other woman. About anything else than him.)

“I was there for you. To see you dance. To meet you and talk to you.” 

“Did you already plan to fuck me back then?” 

“I planned to fuck you from the moment I saw your solo.” 

The look Patrick gave him was everything they had done the night before: a mixture of sweet shock, flattered flush and that special coy cockiness that was probably his utter truest nature. He lowered his eyes for three long seconds (their absent like a sudden blanket of cold), his hands clenching around the rim of the kitchenette counter, before he looked at him again. The tiny flutter of his lashes managed to speed up Jon’s heartbeat like he'd just run a marathon.

“I can’t decide if I should find that creepy or hot.” Patrick pushed himself away and wandered over to the small seating area; the sweatpants low on his hips, too baggy to give away the usual angular elegance of his steps. Jon swallowed nevertheless. He knew it was there; that was enough to turn him on. Putting down his phone, he waited until Patrick was close, in front of him, forcing Jon to spread his legs so he could stand between them. The warmth of his body between Jon’s thighs was a gentle, slow burn that banished every remaining thought of work from his head. (There weren’t many left.)

“You like it.”

“I like it.” 

“You like people watching you.”

“I like people watching me _dance_.” 

He emphasized the last word. As if this was important. As if it was something different. Something completely separated from his usual self. 

“For me it’s the same.” 

“But not for me.” 

The way he insisted upon this was grim; almost disturbing. It made Jon’s skin crawl, his insides clench. It made him wish there was something he could say, something he could do aside from throwing his phone onto the cushion and bringing his hands around Patrick’s legs, clasping his calves and brushing his thumbs soothingly over the sinews on the side of his knees. It was strange to be the one looking upwards for once (there weren’t a lot of people Jonathan had to look up to), to be the smaller one—not having Patrick lift his pretty lashes and meet his eyes—and for a long short moment he felt as if he was being judged, as if he had to pass a test that he could only fail. Then he understood.

“You’re right,” Jon admitted. “It’s not the same. For you. Just like it’s not the same for me.” 

Patrick raised his eyebrows, and Jon stumbled to find words to explain himself. Underneath his fingertips he could feel warm skin—even through the cotton fabric of the pants. 

“You feel different when you dance, when you step onto the stage to perform. You become another person. But no one can see it, no one understands that you are made up of two different parts. They just look at the one they want, or need. They neglect the other one. They force you to be something you don’t want to be just because they refuse to open their eyes and see the real you. Both parts you are made of.”

Patrick blinked—as if Jon had said something right, something he could relate to, making Jon hurry to continue. 

“And I was like that at the beginning—I was like them, when I first saw you dance and then when I met you at the gala. I saw you and I only registered the dancer. But the second we were introduced and I saw the other piece of you, I couldn’t…I can’t _unsee_ you.” He lowered his gaze—it was so hard to look at Patrick, to see the disbelief and doubt on his features. 

“I can’t follow you.” 

Jonathan licked his lips, angry that he couldn’t phrase what he was thinking. “I…to me it seems like there are two different versions of you and since the moment I realized this I cannot forget about it. I cannot look at you dancing and forget that there is this other Patrick. And I cannot look at you like now…and forget that there is this beautiful and mesmerizing dancer. To me they are inseparable. One. Even when you consider them to be detached.” 

Feeling Patrick’s muscles underneath his touch finally relax was possibly one of the most exciting and alleviating sensations Jon had experienced for a long time. To have this proof of Patrick’s trust was thrilling and so so sweet. 

“To me both versions of you are equally breathtaking. Each on their own and both combined. They are so…diverse, so contrary to each other. But I could never be satisfied having only one of them.” 

“Greedy.” Patrick said, although the voice was raw, like gravel (like it had been yesterday evening after blowing Jon and also blowing away his mind). 

“Honest.” 

“Still greedy.” 

“Yes.” There was no use denying it. Jonathan was not a greedy person, but he was for Patrick. Patrick who placed his hands around his face and whose thumbs caressed the sensitive skin under his eyes. Who bowed down to brush kisses over his brows and the tip of his nose. 

Patrick, who smiled the softest and gentlest smile he’d ever seen on him, wearing an expression of pure love. 

 

**XVIII. bliss**

Jon had never before seen Patrick looking at him like that, and he was afraid his heart would just stop. 

It was everything he had ever wanted and everything he would ever want. 

 

**XIX. falling apart**

He makes it through two more meetings without looking at his phone, without even thinking about broken collarbones and surgery and Patrick. ~~Which is a lie because he cannot think about anything else~~. 

He makes it through lunch and the telephone conference with his brother in Québec without checking the voicemail his assistant left him. 

He also makes it through answering four emails about the upcoming Halloween party and the ski opening in Banff without booking the next flight to ~~Patrick~~ Chicago. 

Then he gives up and calls Sharp. 

Then he gives up and books a private jet. 

Then he gives up and allows himself to crumble in his chair, sick with shame and guilt. 

 

**XX. a complicated multiple fracture**

_‘It’s worse than the first doctor expected. A complicated multiple fracture; part of the bone is practically splintered. They’re operating him at the moment, but it will probably take several hours until they’re finished and able to say more.’_

_‘It’s not possible to say anything yet. But…it looks really bad.’_

_‘If there’s a chance that he’ll be back on the stage it’s because of you, Mr. Toews. I don’t know what happened between the two of you and I won’t ask, just like I won’t tell him about what you’ve done. But your stubbornness and your money helped a lot today. So…thank you.’_

 

**XXI. the worst day in his life**

Jonathan has always thought that Patrick breaking up with him was the worst moment in his life. Until the day he and Patrick spoke for the last time on that beautiful and surprisingly warm night in early March this year. 

Yet now he’s sure it is this phone call. 

 

 **XXII. salt**

The knowledge that Patrick maybe would not dance anymore. Could not dance anymore. 

_And the shameful truth that he sometimes even prayed for this_. 

 

**XXIII. many more nights**

“This is the same suite as the last time.” 

“Nothing escapes your perceptiveness.”

“Actually I think it’s the same suite as always.” 

“And again, you’re right.” Jon didn’t look up. Looking up meant getting distracted and right now he had to finish this presentation. But Patrick was lying in bed, freshly showered and seductive, feet in the air, glasses on his nose, terrycloth bathrobe revealing a naked chest and glistening skin. It was torture not looking up and taking him in. 

The lights were turned down, the room immersed in soft amber and the muffled noise from Patrick’s neglected ear buds and the bustle of Chicago’s streets at night. Outside the window was the inky darkness of Millennium Park and Lake Michigan. 

It felt disturbingly peaceful. 

“You always have the same room when you’re in Chicago?!” Patrick's eyes were wide open; unable to hide the mixture of astonishment and awe. “They keep this suite free just for you? Jesus, I knew you’re loaded but that’s… wow.” The sheets rustled as he sat up. 

Jon could easily imagine the gap in the bathrobe widen, the fabric sliding down his shoulder. Could see it in the reflection of the dark glass when he risked a short peek. 

(He should get used to the fact that his workload was limited to nothing on evenings Patrick was here.) 

“I feel a bit like Vivien now.” The trademark grin: all cocky and wide. 

“Vivien?” 

“Vivien. _Pretty Woman_.” 

“Pretty Woman?” Jon knew he must have said something incredibly stupid because the grin faded to an almost shocked expression. 

“You don’t know Pretty Woman?!” 

“Yes, and somehow I still managed to survive.” He crossed out a sentence and wrote a short remark in the margin. It was partly to hide the mild frustration about Patrick’s dismay and his lack of knowledge, partly because he indeed wanted to change it later. 

“I thought you grew up in Canada, not on the dark side of the moon. How can you not know that movie?!”

“Well, it’s not like it’s Shakespeare or Dostoevsky.” 

There were soft footsteps and then hands reached for paper and pen to wind them from his fingers. Even if Jonathan had thought about refusing or protesting, he suspected that arguing would have been futile. Patrick’s gaze was relentless and firm when he pulled him from the armchair and over to the bed. His smile was grim and resolute while he pushed him down and fumbled for the remote underneath the cushions before climbing next to him. His body was warm and pliant and so easy to yield to as he wrapped his leg around Jon’s, effectively keeping him there although he didn’t even make any effort to escape. 

Patrick’s curls tickled where he rested his head against Jon’s upper arm—just like his fingers where they danced over his chest. And Jon just had to lean down and place a kiss onto his forehead, trying to smooth the frown away that he had painted there with his ignorance. 

“You look cute with glasses,” he whispered. Because he wanted to tease him. _Because it was the truth_. 

“I look like a geek. And now be quiet and respectful, this is a classic.” 

If Jon behaved quietly and respectfully it was probably more because he was too intrigued by the way Patrick was totally enraptured the second the movie had started than because the actual story held that much interest to him. A modern version of Cinderella, touching and charming, but not as interesting as Patrick’s amused little laugh when Richard Gere discovered Julia Roberts at the hotel bar. Not as intriguing as Patrick’s hand that slid down his chest and into his pants to idly brush over his cock when the actors made love on the piano. Not as mesmerizing and heartwarming as Patrick’s silly smile when they finally kissed on the fire escape at the end. 

“I hope you don’t expect me to take you to the opera now? Or climb a flight of stairs with flowers in my mouth?” 

“God, please don’t.” Patrick rolled over until he was lying on top of him, folding his hands upon his chest he narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “How can you not be crying!?”

“What can I say, I’m a cold-hearted bastard.” Jon chuckled, letting his hands wander down to clasp the pert little ass and haul him up and closer. It was a rare event that Patrick was still clad only in the bathrobe and not his usual attire of sweats, shirt and hoodie. Never could he resist this opportunity, especially when Patrick wriggled to get even more comfortable, spreading his legs to allow Jon’s fingers to slip underneath the terry cloth and brush over smooth muscular thighs. The little sigh that escaped him when Jon finally reached the cleft between his cheeks and started caressing the velvet taint and the sweet sweet stretch of skin that he could still taste on his tongue from earlier. Jon wanted to swallow that sigh, wanted to drink in every sound Patrick made, to have them all for himself. 

(He wanted to dip his fingers into him and touch him and fuck him with them until Patrick got so desperate that he would clench around them, rocking back and forth on top of him, wanting more and more until he finallyfinally begged him to use his cock. Because hearing Patrick beg for his cock was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard ~~and he wanted to die with these little whines in his ear~~.)

Patrick’s body grew heavier when every last ounce of resistance left him and he completely relaxed under Jonathan’s devotion. Warm air fanned over the left side of Jon’s chest every time he breathed out and slight trembles revealed his arousal. He was delicious and Jon couldn’t decide if he would rather devour him or hold and protect him. ~~Never let him go again~~. 

So he just pulled the duvet over them to cover and warm the bare body on top of him before resuming his careful and thorough strokes, the steady heartbeat a quiet echo, not entirely in sync with his own: always the fracture of a second ahead, running away from him, making it impossible to ever catch up with him. Be with him. 

Jon was on the brink of sleep (the weight upon him perfect, the solidity that should be oppressing and suffocating instead assuring and consoling) when Patrick suddenly spoke again. 

“I know it’s rude to ask…but how rich are you really?” His voice was hesitant, insecure, and even though he didn’t lift his head to look up at him, Jon could feel his nervousness with the recurring tension in his body, the absence of breathing. There was curiosity as well, but Jon couldn’t see any of the pondering calculation or greed that he had so often before seen in others. 

Jon licked his lips, his hands stopped; he really didn’t like that topic at all. But when he said so, Patrick whispered an apology, kissed the spot above his heart. 

“I…Please, I just _have_ to know—” 

Jonathan could feel the heat that crept into his cheeks, the embarrassment that made this version of him so precious. 

“I would never exploit your trust or use you…” 

“I know.” He did ~~he really did~~. But still it was hard to open his mouth and tell Patrick; it was easier to bury his nose in the blond curls and inhale the scent of salty sunshine, to show him how much he understood. 

“Is it only rich rich or is it more like ‘I wouldn’t have to work ever again’ rich?” he paused. “Or is it private jet rich, like ‘I have more money than all my children and grandchildren could ever spend’?” 

The veneration was obvious. However Jon imagined he also heard an underlying sadness—almost like pity and regret when he continued speaking. 

“It’s the third one, isn’t it?” 

Jonathan hadn’t learned yet to lie to him; to resist that particular tone of understanding and honesty. (And he never would.) 

“Jesus…” Patrick lifted his head and finally met his gaze. Confusion and compassion were written all over his features, stood clearly in his big blue eyes. 

“It’s my mother’s family’s, not mine. I did nothing to accomplish it.” 

Suddenly Patrick kissed him: fast and hard and relentless. He sucked every inch of oxygen from Jon’s lungs, with trembling lips and insistent tongue. 

“You work very hard to keep it, to multiply it. You live with that burden every day.” More kisses, not the deep and desperate ones, but short and shallow pecks. “Don’t you ever dare to apologize for it.” 

“It’s—” His mouth went dry. “It’s nothing.”

“No. What you do...is. Everything.” 

 

**XXIV. everything**

But Patrick was wrong. 

Because _he_ was everything. 

~~Still is~~. 

The reason Jonathan got up in the morning and went to bed at night. The reason he ate and breathed. The reason Jonathan began to live, the reason he began to feel, the reason he began to hurt.

 

End part 1

In case you’re interested there’s a [ **tag** ](http://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/tagged/story%3A-soiled-hands) on my tumblr, with pictures, poetry and music that inspired or reminded me of this story.


	2. chapter xxv - lvii

**XXV. the madness**

He starts drinking the moment he boards the private jet to Chicago. He just switches off his phone and instructs the stewardess to not disturb him until they are descending on Midway and then starts drinking. 

His fingers still remember the feeling of Patrick’s flesh underneath them; his eyes recall every movement, every shiver, every flinch, every immaculate inch of his marvelous and supple frame. His mouth longs for the taste of limes, salt, soap and the purity that is Patrick’s truest nature, and he wonders why he’s still sane. 

_If_ he’s still sane. 

Or if he’s already gone crazy. 

 

**XXVI. of being without him**

Because being without Patrick is still impossible and not being able to touch him is still physical pain. 

 

**XXVII. of being with him**

Jonny knew he was not supposed to be there. ~~Again~~. Knew he should not have lied to him. ~~Again~~. Should not have jeopardized the trust Patrick put into him. ~~Again~~.

But he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stay away. 

It had been a problem _right from the beginning_. 

That he had wanted more…time, closeness, intimacy—things Patrick was not willing to give. Would probably never be willing to give. 

And Jon just— he had gotten frustrated. More and more with every time Patrick had shied away from him, pushed him away, refused to talk to him about practices and the upcoming season. He had gotten desperate. More and more with every time Patrick had neglected him, stood him up or forgotten about him over books and choreographies. 

Jon had gotten angry. More and more with every time Patrick refused him the sight of his graceful, slender body in too wide, shabby clothes, of his hauntingly beautiful face lying beside him on the cushion at night, of his honey kisses and soothing touches; more and more with every time Patrick had insisted on not knowing him when they accidentally met at galas or after performances, of denying him his smile, his scent, his presence. 

There were not many people who had the guts and the power to deny him anything. 

But Patrick had both. 

And there was nothing Jon could do about it. 

Except this.

Lying. Hiding. Creeping. 

It killed him. 

**XXVIII. haunted**

Although not as much as not seeing Patrick. 

 

**XXIX. everything he would do (part 1)**

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Jonathan was absolutely sure he had never seen Patrick so pissed before. His eyes spit fire and his lips hissed venom. He spoke quietly but dangerously, fingers wound tightly around Jon’s wrist, squeezing so hard, Jon almost gasped in pain. 

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?!” 

“I—” He was tongue-tied; not exactly ashamed to admit it, but he still would have preferred Patrick not finding him here. He didn’t plan on this. And he also didn’t plan on Mr. Sharp offering him a tour through the offices and practice rooms. 

(He was lying, because he had totally planned on this.)

“Did you come to watch me dance or did you come to control me?” Patrick yanked him away from the open door; some of the other dancers had already started to throw curious glances at them. “Wait, don’t answer. They’re both equally bad. Do you know how creepy that is? Do you not trust me?” 

Of course Jon was aware of how creepy it was. Terribly aware. That showing up at the ballet during practice overstepped a line Patrick guarded so protectively. More than once he had expressed his annoyance and reluctance in the past weeks. Sometimes just with shying away, distancing himself, sometimes with a bristled aggressiveness that resembled a cornered cat. But whenever he decided that this had to stop—that he wouldn’t call, visit, love him anymore—he found it impossible. Because sometimes Patrick glowed under his attention, melted so easily into his arms and reacted with a sweetness and passion that he usually only revealed while he was dancing. (Because not talking, seeing, loving him was even worse than standing here and facing Patrick’s anger.)

“I trust you.” 

“This doesn’t look like it. This looks like you’re stalking me, like you’re obsessed with me.” 

“I am not!” he shot back, starting to get frustrated—with Patrick, with himself. “Look, can we just not do this here? Can we do this at home, later?” 

“At home?! You don’t have a home, Jon, you’re living in a fucking hotel. It may be your hotel, but it’s still a hotel. So no, you came here, we do this here.” Patrick folded his arms in front of his chest, but at least he didn’t look like he wanted to murder Jon anymore. There was still annoyance and irritation in his eyes, but also something different; something that was not as easy to place. 

(Defiance? Hurt?) 

“Why are you here, Jon?” The blueness flickered, as if this was exhausting, as if he was tired and weary (sick of him)—and Jonathan never wanted to do that to him. 

“I came to make a donation, and Mr. Sharp offered to show me around. It was pure coincidence that we ended up at your practice.” 

Patrick huffed. “As if Sharpy wouldn’t show off his principal dancers and soloists to a generous donor. As if you didn’t know that.” 

“You’re right,” Jon admitted, swallowing dryly. “But you know that I can’t resist seeing you dance.”

“I didn’t even know you were back in town. And then suddenly you turn up here in the middle of my rehearsal, staring at me like a starving man would stare at a sandwich? You have to admit that this can be easily misinterpreted as stalking.”

“I missed you.” The words hurt, shocked him so much that he forgot about his rhetoric, about the unspoken agreement that they wouldn’t talk about things like this and for seconds he was afraid that it would aggravate Patrick even further. 

But instead softness spread over the other man’s features, chased away the relentlessness; the tense line of his chin became more lenient; the hardness disappeared from his eyes. 

“I missed you, too.” The tiny flicker of a smile was the most relieving thing Jon had seen for a long time, the words the most promising ones. It almost made up for the pain of Patrick’s absence, the fury before, the reserve and caution that immediately sneaked back into his expression. 

“But it’s…a lot, Jon. Too much.” He licked his lips; for the first time not able to bear his gaze. “You can’t do this anymore.”

“What...” His heart ached, his head was about to burst and his lungs stopped working. “What do you mean? You said you missed me too?”

“And I did, but…You cannot disappear in the mornings and later call me from Vancouver or Barcelona or fucking Singapore without even mentioning that you were going to travel there. You cannot expect me to stay in a hotel suite that doesn’t have a single personal item of yours, reading articles about you and all the women you dated in those gossip magazines my sisters or Kitty always buy. But most of all you cannot look at me the way you do…like I’m _everything_ …and the things you say sometimes when you think I’m already asleep or when we’re fucking.” He was still too flushed from the training for his embarrassment to be visible, but it was obvious when he lifted his eyes to Jon’s, only to lower them again a moment later. 

(Never before had it been more inappropriate, but this gesture was Jon’s downfall: The openness in that blue, the innocent flutter of his long lashes, the submissive flicker of tongue wetting his lower lip... He could feel himself getting hard.) 

“I’m not a thing of yours that you paid for and that you can treat just as you please. I’m not a thing and you cannot want me that much. It’s confusing. And it’s _suffocating_. Especially when you show up here, in practice. A place where I used to feel free. The only place where I ever felt safe and _right_. Where nothing can hurt me. The only place that ever felt like _home_ to me. The only place where I can be myself without anyone judging me for what I am, only for what I can do with my body. Where I can feel anything I want without anyone convicting or taking it. And suddenly you show up here…”

Patrick wrapped his arms around himself, and Jon died.

“You already have so much of me.”

(It was merely a whisper.)

“It scares me.”

The pain and despair were obvious now—made Jon cringe in shame. Made him avert his eyes because Patrick seemed so lost, so precious and fragile, that he had to clench his fists so hard to not step forward and gather Patrick in his arms. 

(Hold him, protect him, keep him and neverlethimgo.)

“I’m...Patrick, I never wanted to scare you.” His words were merely whispers. “I never wanted to make you feel like this. Like a thing...like something I own.”

“But you did, you _do_! Turning up here under the guise of donating money to the company...it’s like you’re paying to stare at me.” 

Which was... ~~true~~ ridiculous. He hoped the sound that escaped him was more one of sarcasm and mockery than embarrassment. 

“That’s ridiculous. People always pay to stare at you.” 

“No, Jonathan, people pay to watch me dance. That’s something completely different.” 

“You know how much I love to see you dance. It’s not like this is a big bad secret.” He took a step closer: close enough that he could feel the warmth Patrick was radiating, could inhale a fraction of his smell—musky and sweaty, with the underlying trace of something dry and powdery. Leaning down to whisper in his ear, Jon could feel his heart give a small jump at the familiar scent, at the sight of flushed pale skin and the line of freckles he had kissed just one week ago. “And it’s not like I’m coercing you to do anything you don’t like.” 

“You don’t get it, don’t you?”

Patrick didn’t turn to look at him again, continued speaking as if Jonathan’s proximity meant nothing to him. As if he couldn’t bear to see him. He no longer sounded hurt anymore, only annoyed, and Jon realized that he was about to leave. To storm away from this futile argument, from Jon. Maybe even break up with him. That he had to offer something—anything—that would keep Patrick here. With him. 

“I get that I made you uncomfortable and I didn’t want that, didn’t want that all.”

“And?”

“And I will try to tone it down. But I, I can’t promise anything, because I have never...I’ve never met someone like you. I love seeing you, watching you. To me you’re endlessly beautiful and mesmerizing.” He hesitated, fingers reaching for Patrick’s upper arm; stopped when Patrick shivered. “You’re not a thing to me... You’re so much more, you have no idea.”

“Jon...” 

For a second he was afraid that Patrick would jerk away and worm himself out of the place between the wall and Jon’s body, but instead he leaned in, brought his head into the curve of Jon’s neck and touched him with his lips. Not a kiss—only lips touching skin...yet to Jon it was fire. When Patrick continued speaking it tickled softly and sweetly. 

“This is exactly what I meant...the confidence of your feelings. It scares me.” Still Patrick didn’t move, stayed where he was and even leaned closer: touch becoming kiss, lips becoming teeth and tongue. “But it also turns me on.” 

 

**XXX. forgiveness**

He didn’t leave and Jon lived. 

 

**XXXI. whispers**

_“The things I want to do to you... you have no idea.”_

_“I want to keep you in my bed forever, never allow you to leave again.”_

_“I want to press you down and push myself into your body, into your life, into your soul.”_

_“I want to mark every inch of you, lick and kiss and taste. Until there is not one spot that is not mine.”_

_“I want to come home at night to the sight of you lying in my bed, curled up underneath my sheets, drenched in my scent. I want nobody else to see you.”_

_“I want to show you the world, to take you with me wherever I go and buy everything you desire. I want to spoil you rotten. Because you’re the best thing I’ve ever had.”_

 

 **XXXII. a perfect morning**

The weekend after the incident in practice, Patrick accompanied him to his apartment in Québec. They boarded his family’s small private jet, and he watched Patrick’s disbelieving smile growing wider and wider as he took everything in, fingers marveling the smooth leather, the delicate bourbon glasses, the wooden panels. He watched his amused grin when they climbed into the sleek Tesla and his stunned silence as they stepped onto the rooftop deck of his apartment, overlooking the old parts of the city dyed in golden light from the setting sun. 

Jonny worked during the mornings, and later they fucked in almost every room until Patrick was sore and red. They ate sushi and thai from containers, didn’t bother with putting on clothes other than sweat pants and old shirts or even with leaving the apartment. 

On Sunday morning Patrick worked out in his small gym, and later he stretched and practiced some movements and steps in front of floor-to-ceiling windows (a streaming curtain of rain behind him, the only sound audible the relentless droplets hitting the wooden deck outside). Jon didn’t know if Patrick did it to prove himself wrong, to fake a confidence he didn’t feel in the absence of a stage. Or if he did it to drive Jon crazy. 

He didn’t know but he did know that it drove him crazy: with want, love and something that was even stronger. 

Seeing Patrick’s barely clad body move in the grayish light—flesh milky, shadows sliding softly over his back, his chest, his face—was something he could never avert his eyes from. The flow of his limbs as he exercised various positions was like a waterfall—strong and natural, right down to his fingertips. The muscles shifting under his skin were like a picture, elegant and graceful. The arch of his back was like a willow tree—flexible and unyielding, tempting and calming. But the most enticing and captivating thing was his gaze—the vulnerability and the determination that stood so clear in them that it hit Jon like a lightning strike. 

Jon had known that Patrick’s dancing was flawless, his expression a direct mirror of his emotions, such that he became another person on the stage, a mystery, as untouchable as the sun. 

Watching him dance here (in his living room, in his apartment, only for him) was something else. It was so intimate and real, so _attainable_. He couldn’t look away, and it made him feel ashamed—as if he was taking something, stealing it, locking it away for no one else to see. 

**XXXIII. magic**

But he couldn’t look away. 

 

**XXXIV. perfection**

It was perfection. 

 

**XXXV. adoration**

When Patrick finished his practice Jon stepped over to him, still breathless from only watching, heart beating nervously, furiously and full of shame, awe and adoration. He stepped over to Patrick and stopped him before he could slip away to Jon’s master bathroom to shower, to find his loose sweat pants, his long-sleeved shirt, to put them back on, to cover himself. 

He stopped him and held him back, with his hand on a bare shoulder, with his fingers digging into the toned flesh, warm and smooth from the exertion. Held him back with his words, with the ~~weak~~ plea to stay—even when he could feel the muscles tensing up under his touch. 

“Let me have this, please. Let me look at you.” 

And for ten long seconds he was afraid that Patrick wouldn’t. That he would brush his hand away and disappear on him. Would get angry again and not allow him any contact for the rest of the day. But then he relaxed and leaned back against his chest and Jon was. Relieved. Thrilled. 

“Haven’t you had enough time to look at me this morning?” 

‘I will never have enough time to look at you.’

But he kept this answer for himself and instead placed not-kisses upon the gentle slope of Patrick’s shoulders, inch for inch until he reached the blond hairline—slightly sweaty, the scent mingled with that of Jon’s shower gel, unfamiliar but just as welcome, even better than the usual fragrance of exertion and theater. His hands splayed lightly on Patrick’s waist (thumbs over the tempting dips above Patrick’s ass), barely touching him anymore now that he was sure Patrick wouldn’t leave him. Mouth brushing over the protruding vertebrae in the breakable neck, nose buried in the silky curls, he was able to breathe again. His lips wandered downward, climbed over each and every one of these small mounds, dived into the lush valleys in between until he reached the last one, until he could kiss and lick the salty skin right where his thumbs had been before. Thumbs and palms that had already moved further down, stroking dedicatedly over the strong thighs, the hairless silky skin on their insides until they trembled so sweetly—overstrung from the careful attention that Jon paid to them and the rest of Patrick’s back before he lightly guided him to turn around so he could make his slow way back upward. Too slow, judging the sudden inhale when he brought his mouth around the protruding hipbones. Patrick was half hard, the scent of his arousal familiar and tempting, but Jon ignored it, just continued with petty pecks along the waistband of his boxers, his fingers tracing the half-moon-shaped line underneath his ass. The hands that grabbed the back of his head to push him towards the neglected cock were liberating—betraying Patrick’s need, the disappearance of his usual coldness. 

Yet this was not what was in Jonathan’s mind. It was too blatant, too cheap, too mundane. 

He kissed a short apology onto the line of tickling hairs that led to Patrick’s belly. This was not about that. 

This was about Patrick, about having him in ways nobody had ever had him before. About giving him something nobody had given him before. Something that would stay. 

He was thorough, very thorough, left not even a tiny patch of Patrick’s body without a touch, without a caress, without admiring it, without tasting, scenting, _memorizing it_. 

When he finally reached the sharp line of Patrick’s collarbones, he had closed his eyes, teeth sunk so deep into his lower lip Jon was worried it would split. His hands were still wound in Jon’s shortish brown strands, clasping them almost painfully. He was trembling, legs so weak that Jon had to pull him down, make him sit on his folded knees while he pressed his cheek to chest and listened to the frantic birdlike palpitations—so contrary to his own heart beat, which was calm and strong. Arms around Patrick’s body, spread over all that beautiful skin he just had discovered: covering, protecting. 

 

**XXXVI. more whispers**

_“Sometimes you’re so beautiful I can’t stop myself from watching you, from touching you. There is_ nothing _I wouldn’t do for you.”_

_“Sometimes I’m so jealous I want to scream at everybody who gets your attention. I want to hit everybody who touches you.”_

_“Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t even be allowed to touch you. You’re too pure for my soiled hands, for my thoughts filled with all those filthy things that I want do to you.”_

 

**XXXVII. vacuum heartbeat**

Jon is drunk when they land in Midway. He didn’t sleep at all even though it was late when he boarded the plane in Victoria and early morning when they finally ascended. His driver awaits him and brings him straight to the hotel as usual, no matter how much Jon wants to order him to drive to the hospital (where he’s not welcome). 

It feels surreal as they pass the illuminated stores on Michigan Ave, the orange darkness of Millennium Park, and at the same time he feels nothing. His brain is white mush and his heart beats in a vacuum. 

Twenty minutes later he stands in the middle of his suite, surrounded by the same darkness as before, not bothering to switch the lights on. Unable to feel anything except for the spinning sickness of too much bourbon and not enough sleep, to taste anything but fire on his tongue and cold bile threatening to crawl up his throat. 

The absence of Patrick. A taste he has gotten so used to that it has a name. 

Why is he here? Why did he come? 

 

**XXXVIII. relief**

He drinks until he falls asleep (breaks down on the bed, the golden sun rising above the lake, blinding his sore eyes).

He sleeps until he wakes up (to the ring tone of his phone, the toneless voice of Sharp piercing his brain like a knife). 

Then he gets up, staggers to the bathroom and vomits until his stomach is as empty as his emotions. 

 

**XXXIX. determination**

_‘I just... I was just in the hospital, talked to Patrick.’_

_‘He took it better than I expected. But he has always been determined, especially when others told him he couldn’t do something.’_

_‘I hope he never has to realize that there are things you can’t force with sheer will and enough training.’_

 

**XXXX. denial**

Jonathan is back in Victoria the next evening. 

He never calls Sharp back, he never enters the Joffrey Ballet again and he avoids any news about it.

 

**XXXXI. denegation**

He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s more afraid to read about the end of Patrick’s career or his recovery. 

 

**XXXXII. dread**

This scares him more than anything. 

 

**XXXXIII. another phone call**

_‘Hi Jonny-boy, how’s London?’_

_‘Rainy and gray, like always. That the reason why you called?’_

_‘No, the reason why I called is blond, approximately five foot nine, nineteen years old and lying in your bed in the suite.’_

_‘Patrick. I allowed him to stay over the weekend. Is that okay? I didn’t know that you were coming. And he’s twenty-five, not nineteen.’_

_‘Really?! He looks barely legal. And of course it’s okay, Jon. I don’t mind your boy toy staying in our suite. Are you finally through all the girls in Chicago?’_

_‘No, and he’s not a boy toy. Are you done then? Or do you have more questions for me to answer at freaking 5 am?’_

_‘Yeah, for example when did you plan on telling your only brother that you’re into dick? Or did you think it would be a good idea for him to find out like this? Jesus Jon, what if it hadn’t been me but Mom?!’_

_‘Look, David, I’m not into dick, just into—’_

_‘Him?’_

_‘Kind of.’_

_‘Sweet Jesus, it’s serious?! You have to tell Mom.’_

_‘It’s too early. And there could be a dozen reasons why he’s staying in the suite.’_

_‘Wearing your old Harvard shirt, his stuff spread all over the room? Not even counting the fact that you never bring any dates to the hotels? Of course. Listen, Jon...you have to tell Mom before she finds out from anyone else. Which she will, you know her. And I don’t want to be the one who knew and kept this from her. I like my head where it is, attached to the rest of my body.’_

_‘Good night, David. I’m going back to bed.’_

 

**XXXXIV. another perfect morning**

“You love me.” 

The way he said it was secure. Strong. Without any doubt. 

But the way he looked at Jonathan was full of wonder, full of incredulity, and Jon couldn’t have that—it was the same expression Patrick had worn when Jon had read him the reviews after the first showings of “Romeo and Juliet”: eyes wide open, mouth slightly agape, tongue constantly busy worrying the lower lip. Waiting for him to lower the iPad and admit that it had been a joke all along. 

Maybe—if it hadn’t been for that gaze—Jon would have downplayed it, denied it. (Not used to loving someone he’d only known for a few months. Not used to love that didn’t come blood ties and obligations. Not used to loving someone who wasn’t family.) 

So he didn’t. Watched the blue eyes open further, the flicker when they held Jon’s. The curiosity in them, combined with the slight twitch of the corner of his mouth that hesitatingly turned into a small smile. It was beautiful to watch, so honest and so relieved and full of bliss; the instant reward for his openness. Almost better than the dishwater-wet hands that reached for him, that grabbed the collar of his dress shirt, that pulled him closer (without even thinking or caring about the insane cost of the Lanvin shirt like he usually did). But never better than feeling this smile against his mouth, the barely perceptible tremble of his lower lip. 

They didn’t kiss. They just touched. Breathed. Stayed like that for long moments until Patrick lowered his eyes, shut them and released Jon from his grasp. 

“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispered, and Jonathan watched him in confusion while he rubbed his hands over his thighs to dry them. He looked worried and not happy anymore. Jon wanted to drape himself around him and see that smile again; he wanted to have those moments back. The bliss on Patrick’s face. 

“I can’t say it back...not yet.” Teeth biting down so deep that Jon was concerned he would really hurt himself this time. That he would draw blood from guilt and regret. 

In some moments he seemed so fragile, so breakable because he changed moods and emotions faster than anybody else. Because he was sensitive and empathic and felt more intensely than ~~Jon~~ other people. It was the reason why his dancing was so incredible and unrivaled. But it was also the reason he hurt. 

( _It was also one of the reasons Jon loved him so soon, so deep, so raw and passionately_.)

“You don’t,” his voice was gone, “You don’t have to. I don’t expect it.” 

~~He didn’t~~. 

“I think love— I think...it’s too soon, I’m not used to this.” 

They were still standing in the middle of Patrick’s little kitchen. On the brightly colored rag rug underneath their feet (Patrick’s bare as always, Jon already wearing his Oxfords), September morning sun shining through the dusty windows, painting everything golden. Freshly cleaned dishes next to them. It smelled of coffee, of egg-white omelets and toasted pumpkin-seed bread. Everything was so domestic and homey, and Jon knew that he would hate to leave later. It was homey in a way his own apartment never was and he hadn’t felt since he left Québec for Le Collège du Léman. 

They were still standing close. So close that Jon could feel the exhale of Patrick’s breath warmly against his collarbone, see the little mole next to his right eye, the freckles on his nose, more prominent after the three months of summer with less indoor training (after the short trip to Monte Carlo in August). 

They were still standing and waiting; Patrick for Jonathan to reply—Jonathan for something he could say. Something that didn’t felt wrong on his own tongue, something that wouldn’t frighten him again, that he could believe. 

“Me too.” He laughed wryly. 

But it was the right thing to say because ~~it got Patrick to look up at him again~~ Patrick chuckled softly. 

“Wow, what kind of losers are we?” 

Then Patrick kissed him. 

This time for real with his warm mouth and coffee lips. He kissed him and it was everything Jon had never experienced. 

Bright yellow walls, turquoise kitchen counter, dark blue fridge—the dancing sparks of light where the sun was reflected in the coppery lampshade above the stove. 

Patrick leaning against him, pliant and trusting and real. Holding him. His eyes fluttering as if he couldn’t bear to not see Jonathan; fluttering as if he wanted to close them and sink into their touch, into their kiss and Jonathan. Because he was like this. 

On his way to falling in love with him. 

 

**XXXXV. happiness**

That was the first weekend they spent in Patrick’s apartment. In the colorful hippie apartment near Wicker Park with its old run-down furniture—collected by his roommate Kitty in abandoned backyards and storage sales, rescued and refurbished, painted in navy, orange, dark red or jewel green. The apartment that always smelled like a mixture of freshly baked organic pies, dried flowers and small dogs and which was so crammed with cabinets, armchairs, cushions and books it almost felt oppressing. The apartment that held more lights (countless numbers of them in all sizes and all shapes possible) and mirrors (reflecting that light, guiding it into the darkest spots, making them bright and warm) than Jonathan had ever seen. 

He never wanted to meet Patrick in his beautiful, elegant and expensive suite again. In that cool and sleek environment that fascinated Patrick so much. He wanted to come to this place, this magical place where Patrick was raw and open and full of affection. 

Although he didn’t get much or any work done during his stays here (he could catch up at night, while Patrick was asleep next to him), although there was always someone around, someone preparing dinner, someone playing music, he felt relaxed and more rested when he left on Sunday evening or Monday morning. 

Sometimes he felt like another one of Kitty’s strays that she took in and waited around in the apartment to be showered with food, cuddles and love. When he told them about this comparison, she just laughed and messed up his hair before stepping out onto the porch to smoke, but Patrick looked at him, not laughing and strangely displeased. 

“You’re not one of _her _strays. You’re _mine_. I found you.” __

__

__**XXXXVI. the end of happiness** _ _

__Those days in the soulful house are past now and Jon doesn’t think about them anymore._ _

__Not when he’s back in his tasteful minimalistic penthouse. Not when he’s in one of the Victorian tearooms in Vancouver filled with roses and carpets more expensive than every piece in Patrick and Kitty’s apartment combined. Not when he’s at his family’s mansion outside of Québec, in the ancient wide hallways or the high-ceilinged rooms with polished hardwood floors and heavy furniture, all clean and spotless thanks to maids and housekeepers and gardeners._ _

__Jon doesn’t think about it anymore._ _

__

__**XXXXVII. and the fear of forgetting it** _ _

__He dreads the day when he cannot feel even this pain anymore. It would mean forgetting. ~~The short time he was happier than ever before~~. _ _

__

__**XXXXVIII. a cold and windy day** _ _

__When Patrick comes to him it is cold. A cold and windy day, foggy and rainy. It’s two weeks before Christmas, over a year after Sharp’s call, over a year and a half after their last meeting in front of the Joffrey, almost two years after their break up and Jon didn’t expect him._ _

__He didn't._ _

__He stopped expecting and hoping for him to show up after that night he spent drunk in his hotel suite in Chicago—after waking up there and vomiting whiskey, hope and all the feelings Patrick evoked in him._ _

__But suddenly Patrick is there, in the suite where Jon usually works and stays. In the middle of the dove-colored room with the high windows overlooking the gray stony mass that is Union Station. Wordless and soundless; a shadow moving in the corner of his eye that makes Jon lift his head._ _

__That makes his heart stop._ _

__

__**XXXXIX. healing process** _ _

__He doesn’t know if it was the craziness of that one drunken night—the despair and senselessness, the realization that he couldn’t live like this, that he couldn’t ruin his life and his name and his family’s, that this wasn’t him...or if it was just the fact that time covers and cures everything. Or if he had just gotten so used to the piercing and mind blowing ache in his chest that Patrick placed there when he left him, so used to it that it finally became numb and dull like an old penny._ _

__Ever present still, but finally so faint that he could ignore it as long as he didn’t stop to think._ _

__Yet one morning he woke up and noticed that he had slept through the whole night and that he didn’t want to drown anymore._ _

__

__**L. collision** _ _

__But now Patrick is back._ _

__

__**LI. countless changes** _ _

__He’s suddenly there and he stands in front of Jonathan as if he didn’t break him. And Jonathan’s heart stops, forgets to beat ~~as if Patrick wouldn’t break his heart again~~. His lungs forget to work and his eyes can’t look anywhere but him. _ _

__He doesn’t want to and he _cannot_ stand it. But he also cannot _not_ look at him. _ _

__His innards turn to lead, heavy and sickening while he takes in Patrick’s appearance. With his skin wintery fair and his body small in the down jacket, with his blond curls peeking out from under the toque, it seems like no time has passed at all: Lips red and chapped from constantly biting them, hands deep in his pockets. Blue eyes framed prettily with long lashes._ _

__(He is achingly beautiful and everything in Jon _aches_ to touch him.) _ _

__For anyone else there probably would not be any difference, but to Jon it’s like a slap to the face, like a fist to the stomach._ _

__Everything about Patrick has changed._ _

__The color of his skin not only pale, but grayish, unhealthy—as if he has been sick for a long time. The body not only smaller but almost drowning in the big jacket—as if he is trying to disappear (has already started to). The lips not only red and distressed, but also bleeding—as if he has been punishing himself._ _

__And then, when Patrick pulls his hat off and takes a step closer; a small one, hesitatingly. When he tries a smile that turns more into a grin. When he lifts his gaze in his signature seductive way that still can’t meet Jon’s._ _

__Then it’s even worse. Because the blond curls are longer than ever, falling not only below his chin but almost to his shoulders, obviously neglected and frizzy, not the soft strands that Jon wound around his fingers while they spent the morning in bed or the evening on the couch the summer before last. The blueness is no longer startling and strong, it’s dull and dim, the light in them dying or already dead._ _

__Jon swallows. Has to hold onto the armrest of his chair to not get up and hurry over and grabembracehold him and neverlethimgo. The urge to protect that has always been there inflamed anew, fierce and so overwhelming it surprises him. ~~Frightens him~~. He has to hold onto himself to not get up, to not give in. It takes all the strength he has rebuilt over the last year; the strength, the self-respect and the hate he felt for Patrick who could do this to him, who reduced him to that needy and weak being he was during their relationship, who made Jon love him so much that he lost himself. _ _

__So he doesn’t. He stays. Looks. Tries to feel fulfillment. But he _cannot_.  
So he doesn’t. He stays. Looks. Waits. _ _

__For Patrick. (Always for Patrick.)_ _

__(He’s waited forever for Patrick.)_ _

__“I...” Loud, so loud in the eternity between them. Maybe that’s the reason Patrick stops himself._ _

__“I don’t know what to say.” Maybe this._ _

__Or maybe it’s that Jon looks at him without a smile, without any emotion. Patrick is not used to that, cannot be used to that for there was never a second Jon could hide his desire, his feelings for him. The despair is visible in his face, mixed up with the veil that clouds his eyes—just like the irritation about himself is traceable in the grim frown that distorts his mouth._ _

__Finally he steps forward to Jon until the tips of his shoes brush against the plush carpet._ _

__“I know what I want to say, but I don’t know how.” The lip bite, the nervous shrug._ _

__For the first time Jon can feel some of the justified satisfaction he wants to feel._ _

__“Well, that must be a first. Since you always used to know what to say but not what you wanted.” His words hit hard, he can see it—in the flinch of Patrick’s shoulders, in the hurt that creeps into his cheeks, turning them even whiter than before._ _

__He still doesn’t dare to let go of the armrest, but Patrick is too focused on his face to notice it._ _

__“Jon...?” It’s just a whimper—fragile and helpless. Something that Patrick has never been before. Something Jon has always selfishly longed to see._ _

__Patrick: wanting him as much as he wanted him. Needing him as much as he needed him. Loving him desperately and vainly._ _

__“... please, listen to me.”_ _

__

__**LII. christmas** _ _

__“Wow... this is,” Patrick whistled through his teeth. He had stopped in the living room to take everything in. Now he turned around and waited for Jon, who was behind him, carrying various bags filled with groceries, presents and Christmas decorations._ _

__“What?” Jon frowned at him while he struggled with the door and his load._ _

__“Surprisingly modest.”_ _

__“And what is that supposed to mean?!” Finally he gave up on the door and walked over to the kitchen counter to set down the bags next to the brown paper bag from LCBO. “Do you want something bigger, something fancier? Is the sauna and the jacuzzi on the ground floor not enough? We can always fly to my parents’ mansion at Lake Louise.”_ _

__But it was a joke; it had been hard enough to get Patrick to come here, to decline the invitation of his friends and coworkers and instead come with him. It was probably mostly Kitty’s decision to fly spontaneously back home to the Philippines that finally made Patrick agree. The thought of being alone in the apartment without her warm presence enough reason to accompany Jon to his cabin in Le Massif. That and the prospect of having a real Christmas with snow, gingerbread, eggnog and a real tree. Jon had no illusions that being with him, spending Christmas with him was the most important part for Patrick, yet to him it ~~almost~~ didn’t matter. _ _

__Patrick was here. (What it had taken to get him here, the price Jon had to pay for that—dishonesty, bribery, remorse and self-disgust—was worth it.)_ _

__Patrick was here. With him. Coming over now to take the bag with the decorations from his hand and place it carefully onto the ground before sliding into the narrow space between him and the counter. Surprisingly close, surprisingly cuddly. His body warm and willing, his arms around Jon’s waist. His face open and relaxed, without the sharp spark of awareness, of caution that had used to be there when they had started dating. He laughed._ _

__“No, Jon, I don’t need something fancier. I don’t even need a sauna and a jacuzzi. This is perfect.” The kiss he planted on his nose was just the same: plain and perfect._ _

__“Surprisingly modest,” Jon mocked, not totally satisfied._ _

__“Yeah, I mean for someone who sent a driver to pick me up after practise and then a private jet to fly me to Québec. Or for someone who lives in a 2000-square-foot apartment that probably costs more rent in a month than ours in a year.” Another kiss before he continued, his tone strangely throaty and solemn. “Or for someone who donated six grand pianos to the Ballet just to see me practice.”_ _

__“If I remember correctly you were way less excited before.” Jon leaned forward to return the gesture, to brush his nose against Patrick’s, smiling when Patrick squinted as he got closer and closer._ _

__“I’m still not happy about that, but... it was probably the craziest thing anyone has ever done for me.”_ _

__

__**LIII. everything he would do (part 2)** _ _

__But Jon only thought about how Patrick had no idea that he hadn’t done it for him but for himself._ _

__

__**LIV. was for himself** _ _

__(That everything he did for him was not for him but for Jon himself.)_ _

__

__**LV. the invitation** _ _

__“What did your family say when you told them you weren’t spending Christmas with them?” Patrick asked._ _

__He was sitting on the kitchen counter with a mug of eggnog in his hand and watching while Jon prepared dinner. Earlier Patrick had made him promise that he wouldn’t serve him more than three portions, because it was basically sugar and fat—everything he was not supposed to consume during performance season. A promise Jon was kind of regretting now, because he liked the little blush that already colored Patrick’s cheeks. He could easily imagine how he would look after spending a day outside in the cold, shoulders and hat covered with snow, flakes melting in the spiderweb strands of hair around his face and on his lashes, eyes bluer than ever._ _

__(Because he still remembered the one time he had seen Patrick drunk. Right after Sharp had announced the principal dancers for the upcoming season and the roles for Romeo and Juliet. He had been so young, so clingy and needy, so blissful and alive that Jon had been unable to let him out of his sight the whole night they spent in that loud, shady club after Patrick had called him to celebrate with him, Kitty, Phillipa and the rest of the cast. So clingy and needy they hadn’t made it home to fuck; instead Patrick had pulled him into a dark corner and climbed onto his lap, twisting, rubbing, riding his clothed cock until they both had come in their pants, Jon’s tip constantly brushing over his hole, temptingly close, only separated by two thin layers of fabric. So blissed out and alive that he had held Jon’s hand the whole ride home, constantly smiling and talking, whispering filth into his ear, about their togetherness, about their future.)_ _

__Carefully Jon finished cutting the ginger and put it aside, before taking the small pieces of loup de mer out of the frying pan. He turned the heat down and cleaned his fingers. “Well...Christmas in my family is not a big deal as it is in others. The holidays are the busiest time of the year for us, so normally we’re working. It’s not uncommon that one of us is not even in the country around this time of the year. There are galas and dinners and parties to plan and attend.”_ _

__Patrick looked at him with mild shock. “But your folks run that company, don’t you have people to take care of all that stuff?”_ _

__“We do...but there are many obligations, mostly for my grandparents or my mom, but also for David and me now. More responsibility, more traveling, less time for family. We usually have our Christmas when the stress is over, at the end of January. We spend two or three days at the chalet in Lake Louise or in Québec, exchange presents, go skiing and talk. Sometimes it’s the first time we see each other in months.” He shrugged, while heating up butter to roast the onions and the spices. When he noticed Patrick’s wide eyes and pitiful expression, he laughed. “Hey, that’s okay for me, you get used to that.”_ _

__“But...it’s—I don’t know, sad? Lonesome?”_ _

__“Believe me, a Christmas feast in Whistler or the New Year party in London is everything but lonesome.” Poking Patrick with the end of the cooking spoon, Jon waited until his smile reappeared. “Give me the spinach, please.”_ _

__“At least your family doesn’t do anything to make you feel uncomfortable just because you happen to like cock.”_ _

__“They weren’t exactly delighted when I told them about you, but they accept that you make me happy.”_ _

__“Mhm.” Patrick took a sip from his mug and brushed his hair back. “Sounds reasonable.”_ _

__“They want me to bring you,” Jon didn’t look up from the stove, didn’t dare watch the reaction, the way Patrick’s face would harden and close up before he would push him away again, deny him, decline him._ _

__“To your Christmas gathering thing?” (Hesitation, doubt, wonder.)_ _

__“I told them that you’d probably have to perform, that you have no influence on your schedule during the season,” he adds quickly, still not lifting his head. (Only Patrick could do this to him.)_ _

__“Well, yes, I don’t think that I’ll have time. But that they would—that you would bring me, that’s...thanks.”_ _

__A pair of arms suddenly sneaked around him, embraced him. And then Patrick’s whole body was pressed against his back. Jon hadn’t even heard him leave his spot on the counter, but he immediately caved and leaned in, eager to feel more of the warm chest, the hot breath on his neck, vanilla-sweet from the eggnog, offered his throat for sticky lips to kiss his skin. The hands around him even tightened, the echo of Patrick’s heartbeat speeding up._ _

__“I mean it. I would come if I could.”_ _

__Then Jon had to turn around and kiss him for real—to forget about the lump in his throat, the shiver of happiness that ran down his spine and paralysed his limbs. (Only Patrick could do this to him.) He tasted as sweet as his breath and Jon was addicted to it, licked and searched for every single trace inside Patrick’s mouth, tangled his fingers in the blond hair and didn’t stop until they both were breathless and their tastes a beautiful combination of them both._ _

__

__**LVI. bitterness** _ _

__“I’m listening, Patrick. What is so important that you came here, to Toronto...to ‘fucking’ Canada?”_ _

__‘After all this time.’_ _

__But Patrick just stares at him. Silent and lost, his expression still so wrong, so different from everything Jon knew about him. And suddenly he cannot stand it anymore. It makes him sick. So he gets up and turns away from him, turns his back to him. Walks over to the window._ _

__Anything to not see him like this. It feels childish, but Patrick always made him feel things he didn’t before._ _

__It seems like there is not enough air in the room, not enough space between them; his throat is blocked, dry and barren. He wants to inhale, to drink in deep breaths, yet he doesn’t—almost too afraid that he could catch Patrick’s scent then, that he would take it in and get addicted again. He can’t afford that. Can’t have that; it destroyed something within him, made him to someone he despised. Hated._ _

__“Answer me, Patrick, why are you here?”_ _

__In the reflection in the window Jon can see Patrick flinch. The image is distorted and wrong just like all window reflections are, eyes and cheeks hollow and haunted. When Patrick steps forward it’s soundless as always and Jon remembers how graceful his movements were (probably still are)._ _

__“For you. I came for you.”_ _

__It’s soft. It’s raw._ _

__It’s the only thing Jon wanted to hear._ _

__“I came to tell you that you can have me now, if you still want me.”_ _

__It’s bitter._ _

__And when he turns around, when he looks at him again, Patrick’s expression has not changed—it’s still the same haunted and hollow gaze of a puppet. A lifeless, soulless thing. He turns around and looks at him and knows._ _

__“You’re not dancing anymore.”_ _

__His body goes rigid and cold runs down his spine when Patrick laughs. Loud in the quietness of the suite; loud and bitter._ _

__“No, Jon. I’m not a dancer anymore.”_ _

 

End part 2

 

Thank you for reading ♥

In case you’re interested there’s a [ **tag** ](http://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/tagged/story%3A-soiled-hands) on my tumblr, with pictures, poetry and music that inspired or reminded me of this story.


	3. chapter lvii - lxxvix

Sorry for the long wait... I really meant to upload this last chapter way sooner, but real life happened and after a 3.5 week road trip through Western Canada (yes, envy me! It was so gorgeous!) I had so much other stuff to do before finding time to do the edits and upload that chapter.  
But I hope to make it up to you with the longest chapter and that you all like it.  
I am still so happy about all the lovely comments... honestly, they totally made my day every time. ♥  
Again I have to thank my sweet beta [ **Jenny** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Linsky/pseuds/Linsky), without her this story would only be half as good and probably twice as boring. She put so much time into this story that she could have probably spent better to write her own stories. I'm still so honored that she even decided to beta this thing. Thank you ♥ 

(edit 17/07/14: had to fix some italics at the end - sorry)

Enjoy

__

 

**LVII. the gift**

_‘I’m not a dancer anymore.’_

 

**LVIII. desistance**

After the drunken, desperate and futile escape to Chicago that ended up with him kneeling on the floor in front of toilet in his own hotel suite, after the stale and bitter realisation that he hated himself more than he had ever had Patrick, after returning to Victoria reeking of vomit and self-disgust, he had showered and shaved until he was able to look at himself in the mirror again. But he never set foot into the Joffrey Ballet again. He unsubscribed from the newsletter and ordered Ann to decline any calls from there. He cut the ties and he was thorough—he had to be. 

 

**LIX. the sacrifice**

_‘You can have me now, if you still want me.’_

 

**LX. a story**

“I’m not a dancer anymore.” 

Jon can’t. Speak. Answer. Patrick’s reduced him to helplessness. To nothingness. So he stands by the window and watches ~~emotionless~~ motionless while Patrick falls apart in front of him. 

“Are you happy now?” Patrick continues, voice quiet again and throaty—as if he is dying of thirst, as if he swallowed glass. (Glass that Jonathan made him swallow.) “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? For me not to be a dancer anymore, for me to have nothing anymore that could distract me from you, nothing anymore that could stop me from loving you. For me to have nothing anymore but you? Well, you got your wish. Because it came true. I slipped and fell...I broke my collarbone. Funny thing, isn’t it?! A collarbone, you wouldn’t think that’s so important for a dancer and I thought the same. I thought I would be back on the stage in no time at all. But turns that the fracture didn’t heal well. Turns out that a collarbone is indeed necessary, turns out that I can’t move my right arm properly anymore, turns out it hurts like fuck whenever I move it... Why are you not laughing, Jon? Is the story not funny?” He smiles grimly and starts to unwrap the scarf he’s wearing. 

(Jon wishes he would stop. Every sentence is torture.)

(Only he doesn’t know for whom.)

“But you’re right. The best part is yet to come. Because I can’t accept this they decide to break the bone again to fix it with screws and a metal plate, but my body reacts badly to the metal. They don’t know why, just that they have to remove it again, only the bone is now so weak that even lifting a small weight could break it again. A small weight like Philippa’s even. Isn’t this funny? I can’t lift my partner anymore.” Patrick’s words are relentless while he unzips his jacket. “Tiny, birdlike Phillipa. First I lose my role as Romeo and then my place as principal dancer. Now I’m nothing.

“Still not laughing? Wait until you see it!” 

The navy fabric parts and reveals a gray sweater underneath. Jon’s. The logo of Harvard faint from countless washings. (He remembers how Patrick stole that sweater from him over two years ago for a quick run to the deli across the street, how he never gave it back, how he wore it when he kissed Jon goodbye after Christmas.) The collar is wide and loose; Patrick removed the seam so he could wear it for practice. There is skin visible, a lot of it. And a scar - white and softly pink. Long, almost as long as Jon’s palm. It is not necessary for Patrick to brush the cotton down, to trace the vulnerable path with his index finger. 

Jon couldn’t lift his gaze for all the money in the world. 

Patrick snorts. 

“Can’t look away, can you? Yeah, you loved to kiss me there, I know. Don’t worry, the scars will fade over the years, at least that’s what the doctors said. You won’t have to look at it for always. Or would you like that? Would you like to see it, the proof of what you did to me?” For a second it seems his voice is breaking and Jon is almost thankful. 

“Stop...I—” Finally Jon is able to tear away his gaze, to interrupt the endless stream of cruelty Patrick is pouring over him. “Please, stop.” 

His fingernails are clawing into his palms, so deep the flesh is already numb when he uncurls his hands now. Cold sweat prickles in his neck and his chest aches with shame, guilt and sadness. Patrick carved a hole into his heart and into his soul and he’s been unable to heal since they broke up—all the time he thought he had but it was just a lie he told himself. 

Thankfully Patrick stops. 

Drops his hand from the collar and his jacket to the ground. He is trembling and paler than before; whether from fury or distress Jon can’t tell. Maybe both. Maybe it doesn’t matter. 

Maybe all that matters is that Jon wants to touch him, to grab him. To shake him until he bites off this sharp merciless tongue, bites open these wonderful blasphemous lips that spat out those painful words. To shove him away, out of this room, out of this life. To grab him, hold him and press him against his chest until he stops shivering, hurting. 

Hurting Jon. Hurting himself. 

Maybe both. 

Maybe it doesn’t matter. 

Because he does nothing. 

He just watches the light fade from the room as it gets darker and darker outside. Watches the twilight creep over the carpet and into the corners, chased away from the orange golden lights of city. Watches the shadows grow between them, the lines of Patrick’s face fall deeper, painting a clear picture of his haggard face, the hollows of his cheeks, the lines under his eyes, around his mouth. Neither of them speaks. Neither of them looks away. As if they would break a spell if they did. As if they would break. 

 

**LXI. the hole in his heart**

_The truth is Jon didn’t heal, and he never would._

 

**LXII. carving that hole**

Patrick greeted him on the porch on the day he broke up with him. Sitting curled in the old armchair, he was smoking: the ashtray on the side table already full to the brim, mostly with the long slim menthols Kitty used to smoke, but also with other cigarette stubs. 

Jon had never seen Patrick smoke and the sight was strangely disturbing. Unease swelled in his stomach when he climbed the four steps. There was an odd glint in Patrick’s eyes he didn’t like when he stood in front of him and watched the lazy flutter of his long lashes, darker even than usual. He was still wearing mascara, Jonathan realized, probably hadn’t bothered cleaning his face properly after the performance; probably didn’t care, probably intended this effect; that it made the blueness of his gaze even more startling, more tempting. 

Alluring but threatening. 

He stopped before he could lean down and kiss him. (It felt dangerous.) 

The pull in his stomach intensified when Patrick didn’t get up, didn’t say anything to his greeting. 

“Are you okay? How did the performance go?” 

But Patrick just shrugged and brushed the hood of his sweater back. His curls were still wet from the shower. He looked pale and exhausted and if it weren’t for the flicker in his eyes, the twitch of his mouth Jon would have thought he was only tired—not unusual after a three-hour performance. 

“Babe?” 

“Jesus, don’t!” Patrick spat out harshly. “And why are you even asking? Weren't you there?!”

“No?” Pulling back, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trench; he knew that Patrick could be mulish and sometimes also bitchy after an evening on stage—especially if something had gone wrong. But this sudden aggression was new, and he raised his eyebrows questioningly. “No, I wasn’t. I had meetings and an important phone call with Beijing.” 

“Wow, that must be a first.” 

“I...can’t follow you. But look, I had a long day.” He fumbled for his phone, which still contained the text Patrick wrote him earlier; asking him to come over tonight. “I’m not in the mood for your _mood_.” 

“I am just surprised that you weren’t at the ballet this evening, that must be rare.” 

“Did something happen?” Concern mingled with anger and confusion. 

“How many times have you seen the performance?”

“I don’t know.” 

“Ten? Fifteen? Twenty times?”

“Are you kidding me?” 

“More?”

“No, maybe ten times. Why? What the h—” Jon stopped himself. Cursing and raising his voice is not what he does. But it was so tempting with the way Patrick looked at him expectantly and provokingly. With the way his lips curled around the cigarette, sly and unkind. “Why are you like this? Why are you trying to fight? And why are you smoking?” 

But Patrick just ignored him, blew a grey cloud of smoke in his direction. 

“Ten times, huh? That’s a lot, don’t you think?” 

“Maybe...but I—” 

“You like to see me dance. Yeah, got it. It’s getting old.” 

“Fine, don’t tell me. But maybe tell me if I should wait inside until you’re finished with this fit or if I should go back to the hotel. I have an early flight tomorrow and I can think of better ways to spend the evening then arguing with you.” He stared down at Patrick; the sharp smell of the cigarette burned in his nose and throat and he could feel the headache he’d been harboring the whole afternoon return with full force. This was not what he had looked forward to all ~~day~~ week long and he couldn’t understand where it came from. 

Things had been so good—better than good—since their Christmas escape. Patrick had even surprised him in the hotel after the Tuesday performance, impatient and demanding and hungry. Confident and bold in a way he only was after being onstage and Jon had loved it, had smiled while he was shoved onto the bed where he had watched Patrick strip slowly. Savoring every piece of clothing that was removed, every inch of skin he revealed until he was naked in front of him, until he climbed and rode him even more slowly and sensually—his body on display in the warm light from above. Jon had never seen him like that: eyes intent and smile wide and happy, unrestrained and free, so willingly showing himself and giving every piece of himself. 

Like he was on stage. Bright and alive ~~under Jon’s attention~~.

(It was the reason why Jon would never get tired of watching him perform, could not stop himself from showing up at practice, could not take his eyes from him whenever Patrick was in the same room.) 

Later he had pulled Jon up into the middle of the room, had unbuttoned his shirt, pulled down his trousers; had kissed every new spot he had uncovered. Every move and gesture so thorough and careful. Tender almost, loving. Hands, lips, tongue, teeth and his lips again. Until Jon had been as naked as he. Flushed and heady under Patrick’s soft appreciating gaze and hands and mouth. Never had Patrick looked at him like this. Never had he touched him like this. 

Almost as if he couldn’t believe Jonathan was real. 

Never before had Patrick pulled him into his arms and held him and whispered praises into his ear before they fell asleep. 

 

**LXIII. the ~~promise~~ lie**

Never before had he told him he loved him.

It had been the last thing Jon had heard before he had drifted off. 

The next morning Patrick had been gone ~~and Jon wasn’t sure if it had just been a dream~~. 

 

**LXIV. the ending**

Maybe he should have expected it. 

But he didn’t. 

 

**LXV. the first choice**

And it hit him like nothing before. 

“Jon, we have to break up.” 

He almost wanted to laugh. Because it was so funny. So unreal. 

But he didn’t. He didn’t say anything. ~~Maybe this was the dream and when he woke up it would be Wednesday morning and he would be lying in the spacious queen in his suite with Patrick next to him, in his tatty wide shirt, coiled around the cushion, curls hiding his face~~. 

“Did you hear me?” Patrick asked him, leaning forward, curious. Cool and cruel. 

Yes. Jonathan had heard him. But he wished he hadn’t. His phone was starting to vibrate in his pocket, a dog was barking three houses down the street, a car was honking insistently; he wished he had misheard Patrick over all these distractions. But he hadn’t. He had heard him. 

‘Why?’ He wanted to ask, only his voice didn’t work, didn’t form the words. 

“Why?” 

Jon nodded. Even though he was not sure if he really wanted to know, if he could listen to him any longer. And at the same time he had to know. So he could respond, could argue, could name the countless reasons why Patrick shouldn’t break up with him. That was what he did when someone confronted him with an opinion or decision he disagreed with. 

“Because I can’t be with you. You love me and I don’t love you.”

“We both know that’s not the reason. We both know that’s a lie.” Blood pulsed in his ears, loud, thrumming and sickening. He thought about Christmas, about that last night four days ago. 

Patrick held his gaze for a long time. Hard and unyielding at first until it finally _finally_ softened a bit. He sagged down and crawled deeper into the armchair, into the thick cozy sweater. This more than anything else revealed to Jon how exhausted he was, how fake his whole demeanor was.

“You’re right. That’s not the reason. But it’s not a lie.”

“Then give me the reason. The real one. Don’t you think that I deserve that much?” Jon still had difficulty forming these words, speaking with this resolution that was just as forced as Patrick’s coldness. “And stop this shit show right now,” he hissed when saw him fumbling for another cigarette. “I’m not falling for it.” 

For a second Patrick looked shocked, then a sad smile appeared on his face. “But it would be so much easier if you did.” 

“Sorry if I don’t make breaking up with me easy for you.” 

“I meant for you.” 

“Yes, but I meant for you. It’s only fair. I’m the one whose heart gets broken.” He laughed dryly. “Nothing about this will be easy for me or less difficult.” 

The moment he said it aloud he realized that it was true. His heart was about to get broken. ~~Already was~~. Patrick would break his heart now and nothing Jon could say to him would prevent it. Nothing he could do would stop him. He was defenseless: something he had never been before. Just like he was sure that he would hurt like never before. And he was not prepared to hurt. Just like he hadn’t been prepared to fall so hard for him. For a man he had just wanted to fuck when he saw him for the first time. 

(He never planned for this. He never planned to fall for him so soon, so much. So _absolutely_.)

“Okay.” Patrick swallowed, licked his lips and for two seconds Jon felt sweet pleasure upon seeing his discomfort. Then Patrick turned his face away, avoided his gaze. And this gesture was... No, Jon wouldn’t have this. With a suddenness that surprised both of them he seized Patrick by his chin and yanked him around. 

“Could you at least have the decency to look me in the eyes?!” 

“Don’t touch me!” 

The voice was so cutting and deadly that Jonathan immediately let him go—as fast as he had grabbed him. Patrick’s eyes flickered in the dark. 

“I swear if you touch me again I will yell.” 

Jon could feel all the blood drain from his face; a sharp pain blossomed in his stomach, grew roots in his guts, spread into every vein of his body. He had been so happy; they had been so happy just a few days ago. The whispered declaration of Patrick’s love that had been everything to him turned to ashes. He was so shocked he stepped back and raised his hands to admit defeat. They trembled. 

“You...listen, we can’t do this anymore, you just,” Patrick shrugged, “It’s too much. I can’t do this. I’m not like...you. I’m not in love with you.” 

“You said it, _you said it_ Tuesday night.” 

“Yeah, right. But that was a mistake.” 

“A... mistake?” (Jon had been wrong. He didn’t want to hear it.) 

“Like this whole _thing_. You weren’t supposed to hear that—it was in the moment. It wasn’t real. I didn’t mean it. And I didn’t mean to get so caught up in this. It’s not what I do. I don’t do relationships. Never have. The only relationship I have is with dancing. That is what I do, that is what I love. There is nothing else for me and there never will be.” Patrick lowered his eyes for a moment, bit his lips. For the first time Jon could see something like real regret, real emotions—a glimpse of the tenderness he had witnessed on Tuesday. “I really like you, Jon. That is no lie. We had a good time. But it’s over now, it has to be over because it’s distracting me from the only thing I ever wanted in my life. I’m not saying this to be cruel...I wanted to argue and be a shit so I wouldn’t have to hurt you, but you’re right. You deserve honesty...I know you love me, or at least you think you do—don’t,” he raised his hand, suppressing any objection. “You told me once that you also don’t do relationships, that you don’t fall in love, that it’s not something that you do. I know that you have strong principles—if you say that you won’t do something then you don’t do that. We had a good thing, it made us both believe that it could go on like this. It made you believe that you’re in love with me. But it’s dangerous. It affects my dancing. And this is the point where I have to draw a line; I cannot let this affect my dancing, do you understand?”

No, he didn’t. 

“Do you really think that I’m lying when I tell you that I love you?”

Patrick shook his head. “I think you believe it. And maybe you really do...I don’t know.” He looked exhausted, overburdened. “And I don’t care. It doesn’t change my decision. We have to break up.”

“Because you are afraid.” 

“I’m _not_ afraid. It affects my dancing.”

“That’s stupid.” 

“Spare me your opinions, please, it won’t change anything. You know nothing about me, my feelings or my feelings when I dance. They are mine. They are everything I am. I am nothing when I cannot dance. This.” He gestured down his body. “This is nothing, worthless—a packet of flesh, filled with bones and organs—but when I use it to dance it is everything. Then it gets a meaning, then it makes me fly. I cannot express it...I cannot make you understand. But it’s the happiest feeling I’ve ever known. Nothing and nobody else can make me feel like this. Nothing can compare.” 

Jon had never before seen him so secure, so resolute, so completely confident in something he said. There was not a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Not the sadness from before, or the short moment of pity. 

“This is not about my career or something, this is not about the ten - or maybe twelve years if I’m really lucky - that I am able to dance on this level. This is about me. About the person I am when I dance. I love that person and I cannot give that up.”

“I would never expect that of you. I love that person too.”

“I know...but still, it’s not the same. I would have to give you my feelings, I couldn’t put everything into dancing anymore and I need to do that. I want to do that.” 

And Jonathan could...almost understand that. Almost. He had seen Patrick dance, had fallen in lust and love with him because of it. But this hurt so fucking much that he thought he would break apart. It was impossible to look at Patrick and not want him, to be in his presence and know that he was no longer allowed to touch him, to love him, to call him his. That Patrick didn’t need him for his happiness. That Patrick didn’t want him. Never had. For real. 

(While Patrick had become his whole reason for happiness.) 

“Tuesday...was it Tuesday that you decided this? Or was it at Christmas?”

“What does it matter?” Patrick seemed uncomfortable, unwilling; he shifted in the chair. As if he wanted to get away ~~from Jon~~. 

“I have to know.” 

“It was not at Christmas,” Patrick admitted—now that he had said everything he couldn’t meet Jon’s eyes any longer. But Jon allowed it, didn’t dare to touch him again. ~~Didn’t want~~. “It was...more like a slow awareness that something had changed. That I said and thought things I never had before, that I didn’t know myself anymore. Meeting your family, Jesus, I can’t even face my own parents. And you were so happy. So I realized that I had to do something.” 

“How generous of you.” Jon could slowly feel his control coming back, his reason and coolness—his sense of self preservation. 

“Tuesday was...something else.” Patrick’s tongue brushed over his bottom lip; a gesture so familiar and still so arousing that it was hard for Jon not to watch, not to want to lean closer and capture his mouth in one of those strong and demanding kisses that usually sprung from this. 

“Another mistake?” 

“A farewell gift.” Patrick corrected carefully. Voice softer again, as if he could sense Jon’s growing anger. He licked his lips once more, fully aware of the effect this gesture must cause inside Jon, and God, it shouldn’t have turned him on, but it did. (It drove him insane and he knew he had to leave before he did something terrifying. Something unforgivable. Something he would regret for the rest of his life.) 

“For whom? For me or for you?” 

 

**LXVI. the hole in Patrick’s heart**

“Why, Patrick? Why do you do this to yourself?” 

It is completely dark when Jon finally finds ~~the courage~~ the ability to speak again. (Maybe it’s easier to do now that he can barely see Patrick’s face anymore.)

“I don’t know.” More a sob than a sentence. Heart-wrenching. “I really don’t know.” 

It breaks his heart _again_.

“Nothing makes sense anymore.” 

“I believe you.” He never wanted him to hurt. He wishes he had called Sharp back. Had sent more money. Had known. But he can’t say it. Can’t reveal this secret—not when Patrick is finally here (so lost and confused and desperate). That was the thing Patrick would never forgive him for. Jon wants to step over to him, close the distance between them—wants to hold him as hopelessly as ever. 

He doesn’t. 

His pride, his guilt and his shame don’t allow it. Patrick has to do it. 

“It was all I ever wanted. Everything I had.” Patrick’s inhale is loud in the darkness; for long seconds Jon is not sure if he’s crying. “Now I am empty. Nothing. And this body...god, I hate it. Mocking me every time I look in a mirror, whenever I look down myself.”

He does. Looks down, where his hands are fold awkwardly in front of his stomach, the right one fidgeting with the other; encircling its wrist and pulling down the sleeve. 

‘No. It’s beautiful.’ That short glimpse of skin and scars has been enough for Jon to know this. ‘It will always be beautiful.’

“Did you try…?” Cannot even say it aloud. Cannot even _think_ it. The image is haunting. He instinctively closes his hand around his left wrist-mirroring Patrick’s movements. “Are you thinking about…?”

“No. I would never. My mom didn’t forgive me for sucking cock. What do you think she’d do if I killed myself?!” 

It’s the first time he almost sounds like himself again: dry humor, cold mockery. “So no. No more scars on my precious body except for the one I showed you. Do you think you can live with that one? Or is that a deal breaker for you?” Jon can hear the smirk, can see the same cruel flicker in his eyes as the night they broke up. 

“Not this again,” he says, frustrated and annoyed that Patrick can’t stop with this. “You’re talking shit and I don’t want to listen to it anymore. Say what you want or leave this room. Otherwise I’m calling security.” 

“Oh, Jon, please, as if you would...not now, not when I’m here begging you to take me back.” 

But he seems nervous—there’s a hesitation in his voice, underneath all the spite and self-hate. 

“Then start begging.” (Two can play this game. And Jon is a good player.) 

“That’s something you’d like, wouldn’t you?!” 

“Yes.” 

No. He would hate it. Just like he hates every second of this discussion, of this useless talk.

(He would love it. Would love to see Patrick beg; the despair in his wide innocent eyes, the flutter of his lashes when he looks up at him. The sweet sound of his voice humble and full of emotion. Jon is disgusted by himself, but he can’t help it.)

“Would you have me again, Jon? Please.” It’s low, every word carefully pronounced. 

“That’s your begging?” Jon raises his eyebrows even though it’s too dark for Patrick to see it. “That doesn’t sound like begging at all.”

“Are you— wow, I can’t believe you!” Patrick’s laugh is shrill as he bolts up and switches on the light. Both of them blinking in the normally soft golden glow. Both of them surprised, shocked to see again. How much time they have spent like this—in darkness—they can’t tell. Jon is still leaning against the chair he was sitting in before, Patrick’s jacket is still lying on the floor, his collarbone is still bare, his hand pressed on the switch, frozen.

“Do you really want to humiliate me?” The raw distress on his face. The naked emotion. (He’s beautiful and Jon wants him back like nothing else.)

“The way you humiliated me, you mean?” 

Patrick closes his eyes slowly. When he opens them again they are wide and full of despair; like Jon imagined it. Like Jon cannot not notice. He’s beautiful. But it’s still so wrong that he has to turn away. He doesn’t. 

“No, Patrick, I don’t want to humiliate you, I just...why? Why are you here and humiliating yourself?” 

For a short moment he thinks that Patrick is about to either cry or leave. Then he looks down, stares at the fronts of his shoes that brush the seam of the carpet as if he never moved at all. The blond curls that fall around his face are really long; they don’t look soft anymore. 

“Like I said...nothing makes sense anymore. I don’t know what I feel. I am sad and angry and so so empty... Every hour lasts a day, every day lasts forever. There is nothing that I can do to fill them with, nothing I want to do. I can’t sleep and I can’t eat. Food tastes like ashes in my mouth, water bitter as bile and everything I touch falls apart. Never before have I felt like this...cold when I’m alone, hot when I’m with people. I can’t stand music because it reminds me of dancing, but I have to drown the silence because it kills me with its loudness. I can’t see my friends because they are still dancers and I envy them so much that I would start to hate them. I was so desperate that I even went home to my mom’s place. Yet my family either pities me or tries to encourage me to get out, to find something that keeps me busy, that makes me happy again—as if anything could! So I returned to Chicago. But even Kitty is sick of me by now. I work night shifts as a dishwasher in a restaurant near Logan Square and measure the time passing by in glasses I cleaned and pans I scrubbed and think the best part of that job is that it’s so exhausting that I can fall asleep afterward, at least for two or three hours. Then I get up and fake being a person again instead of this soulless puppet and I _can’t_ stop thinking of you. Of what you said to me on the day we broke up. I can’t stop seeing your face, the pain I put there.” He brushes the strands back behind his ears. Lifts his head again—proving that he’s not crying, that he’s far away from tears. That his eyes are as dry and hollow as his voice. 

“I know what I said the last time is unforgivable.”

(It is.) 

“I know I shouldn’t have said it. I shouldn’t have hurt you so much.”

“But you did.” And Jon is not sure if talking about it now hurts more than hearing those words then. He can’t help it. 

“It was a mistake. I made a lot of mistakes.” Patrick laughs a bitter laugh. “I’m sorry.” 

“And you should be.” 

Jon watches with a mixture of regret and satisfaction when Patrick winces at his words. When he lowers his eyes once more, unable to hide the sadness, the guilt and pain from Jon’s sweet revenge, the unnecessary cruelty. 

 

 **LXVII. shattered**

Patrick broke his heart. 

_Twice_. 

 

**LXVIII. self-protection**

It took him almost two years to recover. He cannot afford to have it broken _again_. He cannot let this happen _again_. 

 

**LXIX. the second ending**

Patrick was waiting for him on the sidewalk, next to the car where Miguel had parked it during the show, talking quietly to him, joking as if it hadn’t been weeks since he last drove Patrick at Jon’s behest. 

Jon stopped when he noticed him. Stopped in his tracks, not caring about the other people streaming out from the theater foyer, not caring about the passersby crowding the sidewalk who had to step aside to avoid crashing into him. 

But this was Patrick. Clearly waiting for him, _for him_. 

How he had managed to get out before him was a mystery; even with that small chat Jon had had with Mrs. Benjamin he should have made it out faster than Patrick who had to shower and remove his makeup. Jon knew how long he sometimes took—had waited more than once for him just like Patrick was waiting for him now. 

Yet when he stepped closer to him he could see that his eyes were dark as a storm, makeup smashed at the corners, with mascara still blackening his lashes, that his cheeks showed the heated blush from the exertion, from the embarrassment of the frenetic applause: he hadn’t showered, hadn’t wasted any time to get out, to catch Jon in time.

He looked like the last time Jon had seen him this close. Cold and pissed. 

Also like the best thing he had ever seen. The sharp bones of his face set tight, the line of his chin tense. The blond strands around his face long and curly. Longer than they had ever been and so inviting Jon’s fingers itched to touch them.

(Long enough to caress their silkiness while kissing the sensual mouth, holding onto them while directing him downward to his cock, winding his fingers through them while fucking him from behind.) 

“Jon.” 

Although nothing in Patrick’s voice implied that he should indulge in fantasies like this. Nothing in his voice meant anything good for him and he straightened his shoulders to prepare for the impact that was obviously ahead of him. 

“Patrick,” he said before nodding to Miguel that he could wait in the car: He got the feeling that Patrick would not want to do this inside the privacy of his S-Class.

“How many times?” 

He didn’t have to ask—he instantly knew what this was about. But this still didn’t mean that he had to answer the question. So he just folded his arms in front of his chest and returned the cool stare. 

“I asked you something, Jon.” 

“Something you have no reason to know anymore. Something you shouldn’t care about anymore. How I spend my evenings is not longer of your concern.” 

“Oh, actually I think it is of my concern if you spend your evenings stalking me.” 

“It is hardly stalking if you perform on a stage for public and I pay to see you. I can’t see where this is illegal.” 

“I don’t care if it is illegal or not—it is just sick and you have to stop.” Patrick’s hands clenched around the strap of his bag and took another step towards him; close enough that Jon could imagine catching his scent now: slightly sweaty and salty, mixed with a hint of powder and bergamot—the heavy curtains and costume fabrics, of hard work at the barre and the weightlessness of a pas de deux. 

“I don’t think you’re in the position to tell me this.” It made him yearn to cover the distance between them, to lean in and breathe, to touch and taste and _take_ ~~what was no longer his to take~~. His heart contracted around the emptiness that was left of their relationship and in this moment he would have given everything to have Patrick in his life again. To not be reduced to this desperateness that had made him come back almost week after week to see him dance. But everything in Patrick’s tone and gestures and posture told him to not submit, to not reveal this weakness he was feeling in his proximity. 

“You’re right, I’m not.” The way his eyes narrowed shouldn’t be a turn on—but Patrick’s emotions had always been. 

“Then I suggest you get to the point.”

“Like I said, it’s sick. And pathetic. And you just have to stop.” 

(It hurt.) 

“It’s nice that you still care so much about me.”

“No, I don’t care about you at all. I care about my _dancing_ —it’s all I care about! And knowing you’re in the audience watching every step I take bothers me. It distracts me.” 

(Like hell.)

“You should really work on your focus. I noticed a little slip in the second act.” 

The moment when Patrick turned from angry to furious was ravishing. 

“I can’t focus if I know you’re there! I can’t go onstage anymore without feeling your gaze on me. Without thinking of you being there in the darkness undressing me with your eyes. It’s creepy. Don’t you get it?! This time it was just a little slip, but next time? What if I drop Philippa, what if I trip? Do you want to ruin my dancing? Do you want me to trip? Break my legs? Do you want me to be unable to dance anymore, tied to the ground? Do you think I’ll come back to you then?” 

(Yes.) 

“No!” Because the image Patrick painted for him was horrible—a nightmare. Patrick’s graceful limbs broken, his elegant movements clumsy and distorted...his smile extinguished, his eyes dull, his fired burned out. 

“You would like that? Having me back, limping and broken, as long as I don’t have anything else beside you. As long as you’re the only thing I love.” 

(Yes.)

“God, no!” 

“Then stop!” 

Hard and cutting ~~him apart~~. Every single flicker of his eyes was cold, every twist of his mouth was vicious. Because every word Patrick had said was true. Because Jon really would like to have him back, would rather see him unable to dance than be without him. (He dreamed about that, hoped for that.) 

“I tried.” (He didn’t.)

The bag dropped from Patrick’s shoulder and Jon could see some passersby turn their heads towards them. But he couldn’t pay attention, he couldn’t mind them. They were causing a scene...but he just couldn’t. The only thing worth his focus was in front of him, breaking his heart. Not breaking it ~~because it already was broken~~. Shattering it completely, trashing it and walking over the scattered pieces until there was nothing left of them but dust. 

“Try harder.” 

He was directly in front of him, almost chest to chest with Jon now. The scent, the sight overwhelming in a way nothing had managed to move him since they had broken up (since Patrick had broken up with him). Still familiar, still desired. Finally close again yet still as untouchable and unattainable as the sun. 

(Still the best thing Jon had ever had. The only thing he had ever wanted.) 

“Or wait, don’t try. Just stop. I’m not coming back to you—I never will. And with every time you show up here I will loathe you more.”

It was indeed pure and cold hate in Patrick’s eyes. Like always they were unable to hide any emotion he felt—a window to his soul. Jon wished they weren’t, wished he wasn’t able to see the extent of the contempt he was feeling about him. Wished he couldn’t see the truth.

 

 **LXX. acid**

Patrick despised him. 

 

**LXXI. no one**

It was something he couldn’t deal with. Live with. 

Jon was used to disrespect, to envy, even to antipathy. But all those people had not been Patrick. 

He didn’t care about them. No one. 

 

 **LXXII. hate**

It was only his training with media, with clients and employees that helped him maintain the facade; his composure. Not good enough probably to deceive Patrick who knew him better than anybody, better than even his brother or his mother (because Patrick never demanded anything from him, never expected him to be anything but himself, never wanted more from him than the truth—and that was all he could give Patrick, the only thing he had ever accepted). 

Every fibre of his body ached from the lie, from the awareness of Patrick’s new feelings for him. 

It was only the instinct to defend, to protect himself that made him reply with a cruelty he didn’t recognize himself; that only Patrick could provoke in him. 

It was only the hunger that he could not stop feeling, the need and the love for Patrick that made him say anything and not just walk away, not even dignifying him with an answer like he normally would have done. 

(Even a minute more in his presence, with him so close was better than leaving him now and forever.) 

“Wow...I must really mean a lot to you if just the possibility of my presence disturbs you so much.” Jon could be cold and cruel too; it hurt him to twist and turn the knife in the wound he created—almost as much as Patrick’s words—but the most painful part was how much he enjoyed it. How much he savored seeing the blank surprise and shock he put there (Patrick’s impressibility was still the most amazing thing about him). “Maybe I should let you know when I’m there so that your feelings are justified. Or maybe I should stop coming at all—let’s see if you’re still able to create that magic without someone who admires every single step you take, without someone in the audience that inspires so many emotions in you. Maybe you would just fall apart.” 

All the time he had suppressed the urge...but now no longer; he lifted his hand and brought it around Patrick’s face. Cupped it with his palm and brushed his thumb over the blushed arch of his cheekbone. Caressed the delicate skin below his left eye with the rougher pads of his fingertips. Teased the tickling ends of his lashes until Patrick lowered them (the soft curve when he leaned into the touch betrayed the impact of Jon’s action, the flickering dark shadow spoilt Jon’s wounded pride, the barely perceptible breath that ghosted over his quivering lower lip was the best gift Jon had ever received). 

But then Patrick ripped himself from his trance and sneered. Although he didn’t take a step back, didn’t distance himself from him. Didn’t shake Jon’s hand away. Although he still kept his head pressed into his palm ~~as if he also agreed it belonged there~~. Looked up at him through the shatters of his fluttering lashes ~~as if he loved it~~ Buried his teeth in his lip ~~as if he awaited a kiss~~. 

It would have been less abrupt and less agonizing if he had slapped Jon. 

“Keep telling yourself that, Jon. Whatever makes you happy.” 

Finally (too soon, too soon) he ended their contact and Jon’s hand fell back down. He put so much space between them and Jon felt cold. He smirked and Jon felt even colder. 

“But don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m one of your women who is delighted that she made it into your bed. Or one of your employees you can order around like you please. Because I’m not. Never was. Show up here once more and I’ll cause a sensation you are not ready to deal with. I’ll fucking ruin you and your family.”

 

**LXXIII. the last time he ever saw his face**

Patrick bowed down and picked up his bag, blond hair falling into his face, long and soft and so inviting. The seamless collar of his navy sweater revealed skin delicious as warm milk. 

When he got up again the grin was gone, replaced by the casual mask he usually only wore for strangers, for bootlickers, for people who were not Jon—not worthy of his attention. 

The only thing he left behind was a waft of his scent: powder, sweat, green fruits and so Patrick Jon had to shut his eyes to not see him walking away. From him. 

 

**LXXIV. a fact**

That was the last time they had talked. The day that once was the worst day of his life. 

 

**LXXV. the second choice**

“Maybe this is just another mistake?” Jon asks when it becomes clear that Patrick is going to stay silent. That he hurt him enough to shut him up. But not enough to see him fight back, to fan the fire that once was there. 

“No. It’s not.” 

“I meant for me.” Jon doesn’t want to hurt him more. It is not about revenge ~~really not~~. “Patrick, it took me two years to forget you. To not think of you every morning when I wake up, every night before I fall asleep. Every time I smell powder, bergamot or polished hardwood floors. Every time I accidentally hear Prokofiev. You turned me into a person I couldn’t stand for almost two years—I felt like a fucking drug addict. And I can’t have that again.”

The sudden shock on Patrick’s face is overwhelming—the amount of self-blame Jon can discover in his eyes makes him shiver. It’s pleasure and torture at the same (because he always loved this about him, always admired it, always dreaded it because he couldn’t stand seeing him in pain, either physical or emotional). 

“I never wanted that.” Patrick’s voice is glass: breakable and broken.

“You did.” Maybe it is about revenge (because Jon is still selfish, wants to be the one that brings the pain, wants to be the reason for Patrick’s suffering). “You knew how much I loved you, how it would destroy me. So please, spare me the lies at least.”

“Still...” He is paler than before, the shadows under his eyes more prominent. It makes him look even more exhausted and fragile. As if Jon has taken away something that has kept him going until now. “I knew, or at least I assumed—but I didn’t really think about it. And I definitely didn’t want it. It was more like one of those things where you think it will be alright, it won’t be as bad as you imagine.”

“It wasn’t. It was _worse_.” 

Jon is so tired of pretending, of hiding; he did it for almost two years. And this is the one person he can’t lie to, doesn’t have to lie to. 

“I’m really sorry.” 

For the first time Patrick steps over the invisible barrier of the edge of the handwoven carpet, dares to come closer to him. He hesitates for a second but then he’s almost in front of him and Jon can see the redness of his eyes. The honesty not even he can deny, as much as he hoped. It would have made everything easier. 

“I mean it, Jon, I’m so so sorry.” If Patrick still had tears he would probably cry. 

(Jon wishes he could hate him.)

When he says this aloud Patrick pales even further, eyes wide with fear. But he doesn’t move back, he doesn’t budge, he stays where he is. _Close_. Doesn’t even blink. 

“You broke up with me because you claimed our relationship...no, _your love_ for me would fuck up your dancing.” 

“Yes.” 

“And now that you lost that you’re coming to me.” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m your second choice.” 

“No.” 

“Stop lying. It’s insulting.” 

(He wishes he could hate him. Wishes he did not hurt so much just talking to him. Wishes Patrick weren’t here, hurting him so much.) 

“I am not lying. Don’t insult me with these accusations.” And suddenly he is there: in Jon’s personal space, right in front of him and _soveryclose_. The hint of some of his old fire darkening his eyes. It takes Jon’s breath away. (He is not used to Patrick’s presence anymore—like a drug addict who imagined himself to be clean, only he wasn’t, he just couldn’t get his favorite drug anymore.) “Let me explain...please.” 

_As if he wouldn’t. As if Patrick didn’t know he would_. 

Jon lowers his gaze because he just can’t stand the sight. But when Patrick’s fingertips touch him he jerks upright again. So soft, so careful—the way someone touches a wild and beautiful animal. The caress is cold, yet Jon feels warmth radiating from the minuscule contact. 

“You’re not my second choice, Jon. You never were. I just...I couldn’t see it. And I wouldn’t have realized it if it weren’t for the accident. I would have never realized it. Because I was blind. Blind and stupid. And so fucking afraid. You were the first person I think I loved apart from my family and you know how that ended. You were the first person I needed. The only thing I needed apart from dancing—and I never realized that that thought scared me like shit. Because unlike dancing I couldn’t control you, I had no influence upon you. You could have left me and I wouldn’t have been able to do anything against it. I was dependent on something I couldn’t control.” The fingertip touch gets bolder, becomes more than a hint, becomes a tentative brush, a sweet request for permission to trace the veins on the back of his hand, to circle his wrist. 

Jon can’t help it. He gives in. Offers his hand for more touching. 

“While I had dancing I still had something that covered that hole you left behind. But after the accident...there was nothing left. Nothing that could fill me anymore. It was like an open wound that kept bleeding and bleeding. At first I assumed it was because I couldn’t dance anymore... But it wasn’t. At least not alone. It was the thought of you not being here. You pushed yourself into my life with such a force that it shattered my soul and I wasn’t prepared for that. I wasn’t prepared to need someone, to need you.” Patrick’s voice is quiet, full of hesitation. Full of insecurity. His hand around Jon’s is full of promises and his eyes are full of regret and hope. 

“What took you so long? The realization or the admission?” 

“Both. And then it still was...too soon. Too soon for you to forgive me. All the horrible things I said...I was afraid. Until wanting to see you became this ache in my chest I couldn’t ignore anymore, until it overcame the fear of your reaction.” The tongue is back, licking his lower lip, which is already so dry and chapped that it looks awful. It’s an automatic move, Jon is aware, but it’s the first time he can see it for what it really means—not an invitation or a smooth move to persuade and tease: it’s nervousness. Patrick is anxious. Always is. He may use it to his advantage (because it never fails to seduce, never fails to make breath catch, to get him what he wants) but it’s always insecurity that lies behind it. Even when he still was able to dance. 

And for the first time Jon doesn’t want to close the space between their bodies and bring his fingers to that lip, that mouth. Doesn’t want to dive in and kiss and fuck. He wants it to stop, he doesn’t want to witness him being uncertain, he wants Patrick to be aware of everything that he is—astonishing and outstanding. That it’s not the part that is a dancer that makes him remarkable. That it’s the part that makes him _feel_. 

 

**LXXVI. Patrick’s soul**

Because that is the part that makes him dance. 

 

**LXXVII. the knife**

So this time he stays where he is, his hand in Patrick’s, Patrick’s blue eyes on him, pleading and beseeching. 

“You don’t believe me.” 

“I...” Jon can’t (shouldn’t). “You told me I make you sick. You told me that you’re disgusted by me. That you would ruin me and my family.” 

“Because I had to find something to hurt you, to make you stay away... To protect me.” 

“You thought you had to protect yourself from me...? And you choose the ugliest way of making sure that I would not hurt you.” 

The cold is shocking and numbing when Patrick releases his hand, when their touch ends. When he looks down and can’t meet his eyes anymore and suddenly Jon recalls what it is like...to live with the absence of Patrick. (Not that he ever really forgot.) But he’d rather continue his life like this than experience that suffering again. Rather turn away than stare at him much longer. 

Patrick is right: the end of their relationship is like a hole, like an open wound that is still bleeding. Jon had it covered with a band-aid for long enough that he could reason himself into believing it was healing, that it was gone. But it wasn’t and now Patrick’s presence has ripped it open again. 

“I would have done everything and anything for you and you wanted to protect yourself from me.” He wants to get out of this room, away from here. Away from Patrick. He can’t. He has been aware of it...always. But having Patrick in front of him, confirming it. It’s different. 

It makes it more _true_. 

“Jon... Please.” Soft footsteps appear behind him, almost soundless, and then Patrick’s hand is back again. Not touching him—as if he knows that Jon couldn’t stand it right now. Just hovering over Jon’s, waiting for a sign, a word that he is allowed to touch him. Jon can almost feel it; the closeness, the sweet and heavy aura behind him. But he can’t bring himself to move. To press his hand in Patrick’s palm, to lean back and feel. 

“How am I supposed to believe you now? How am I supposed to forget about that?” 

“I...

“How are _we_ supposed to get over that?” 

“...don’t know.” 

“And are we even supposed to?” 

He turns around. Abruptly. So abruptly that Patrick flinches and has to jerk back so they don’t collide. Yet he stays near, doesn’t distance himself like before, doesn’t yield, doesn’t flee. Now they are closer than before and Jon ~~has t~~ can face the changes in his features in detail. All the beloved lines and curves and angles. The thin skin underneath his eyes, bluish, unhealthy from the lack of sleep, his freckles gray and barely distinguishable from the pale color of his nose and temples. The bedraggled state of hair, unkempt and greasy, long enough to pull back into a short tail. The sharp cut of his bones, even more than before with his cheeks hollowed from weight loss. 

Everything about him has changed, everything about him reveals how afflicted he is, how much he is suffering. 

(Jon wants nothing more than to believe it’s because of him.) 

Nevertheless he means it. 

“I hurt you because I loved you too much. You hurt me because you didn’t love me enough.” 

He keeps his eyes on Patrick’s, watches the conflict, the misery, the dread. So many emotions—all so beautiful. And right now they are _for_ him, because _of_ him. Then Patrick blinks, blinks them away and when he opens his eyes again they are wide and blue, almost childlike in their honesty. 

“I love you...and I loved you then. Just in a different way than you.” 

“But you didn’t love me enough to accept it. Or admit it.” Jon hides his hands in the pockets of his jacket; touching Patrick is too alluring and he cannot give in to that temptation. _Need_. “So I ask you again: do you think we’re supposed to start again?” 

Jon has no idea what kind of answer he wants from him. If he would rather hear Patrick negate that or not. If he would rather have him decide this because he is gutless and unable to send him away or because he already knows his own reply. 

“I don’t know it, Jon, but I—” Patrick stops himself, licks his lips as if he would do anything to buy more seconds, as if he doesn’t want to say it—or as if he wants to get it out so desperately that he stumbles over his own thoughts and feelings. He starts again.

“Once you said that you couldn’t look at me without seeing both puzzle pieces that put me together—that you loved both of them equally. The dancer and the person that is just plain me, nothing special. Was that true? Do you think one of these parts will be enough for you? Do you think you can love that one part enough to do without the other part? Because I’m broken. And I can’t put myself back together. You’re the only person that possibly can. I don’t know anyone else who could do that. You’re the only one who saw the other me, who loved the other me enough to even bother noticing it. You’re the only person I dared to reveal it to.” The lowered gaze through his fluttering lashes is piercing and pleading. 

~~Jon must be blind to not stare at him. Must be deaf to not drown himself in these words. Must be dead to not love him~~.

“Please make me whole again.” 

He cuts him off. It’s the only thing he can do. To stop him. To stop the ache. That tears him apart. He cannot listen to Patrick’s words. They are everything he longed to hear for such a long time that he can’t stand them. They are the knife that slides right through his ribcage and cuts him open and makes him _bleed_. 

(Only Patrick can do that.) 

“If you could have only one thing? Dancing again or me...” 

“Jon...” The way he says his name is blank, detached, not even pleading anymore. And Jon watches with morbid and thrilled fascination the way Patrick pales even further and all hope drains from his eyes. As if he knows that he can’t bail out of this answer, as if he knows that this answer will end all his hope. (Jon wasn’t aware that he could do this, that he had this much impact on Patrick’s emotions.)

“Don’t make me answer this question.” 

“But I do.” 

It is probably self-torture, but he has to hear it. Has to know it. (And it’s also to torture Patrick—because the deep, dark hidden part of him is merciless and heartless and not able to forget.)

 

**LXXVIII. maybe they are not supposed to be**

Patrick’s whisper hangs in the air between them with a finality and fatality that takes away both of their breaths. Nobody blinks, nobody moves for a long time. Then Patrick smiles. 

It’s sad and happy at the same time. 

Then he stretches slowly, covers the small distance between them and places a long, lingering kiss on Jon’s confounded lips that tastes faintly of mint and farewell. 

It’s sweet and bitter at the same time. 

Then he turns away, picks up his jacket from the floor and walks towards the door with the familiar grace and litheness. 

It’s a relief and a nightmare at the same time. 

 

**LXXVIX. maybe they are**

There is nothing Jon can say or do. 

 

Except one thing. 

 

—

End

Thank you for reading ♥

In case you’re interested there’s a [ **tag** ](http://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/tagged/story%3A-soiled-hands) on my tumblr, with pictures, poetry and music that inspired or reminded me of this story.


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